


Bordeaux

by lockheed_london



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 13:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockheed_london/pseuds/lockheed_london
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bordeaux, and what happened after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bordeaux

There’s no need for Douglas to ask how Martin’s latest relationship is going; as soon as he walks into their portacabin then the answer is painfully obvious in his lagging footsteps and the tight, miserable corners of his mouth.

Douglas sighs inwardly. Almost a year ago Martin had announced that he was _tired_ of being on his own, and that he was going to make more of an effort to meet someone and give Internet dating a shot. Douglas had made encouraging noises – sensing that this wasn’t the time for friendly leg-pulling – and a few weeks later Martin had dropped into conversation that he’d met a girl. He’d been trying for casual, but Douglas had seen the shyly self-conscious but pleased curl to the corner of his mouth and had taken the opportunity for gentle teasing. Martin had grown predictably flustered but, beneath it, he looked happy. An unusual look for Martin, but Douglas decided that it rather suited him.

The tentatively happy look had vanished a few weeks later, however, when Martin had murmured that they were no longer together. Another girl followed, but lasted no longer than the previous one, and then Martin came in a month later and announced that he had a boyfriend, and that said boyfriend wasn’t the first of his kind. He was scarlet as he stuttered and fumbled his way through it, chin held defiantly high and shoulders squared, but Douglas took it in his stride. After all, he had also been known to dabble on both sides of the fence over the years – although this wasn’t something he planned on volunteering to his colleagues any time soon. So he had merely raised an eyebrow to show that it was all one to him, made a quip about Martin being quite the Lothario, and hoped inwardly that Martin would have better luck with his own sex. Because a happier Martin was a Martin who was infinitely easier to work with and, while Douglas liked to tease Martin about being a heartbreaker, Martin looked so disappointed that Douglas suspected strongly that none of the break-ups had been by mutual agreement.

Now Martin slinks in and sits down, with a hollow look to him and only a mumbled, ‘Morning,’ in response to Douglas’ greeting. 

‘I see you and Andrew have decided to call it a day,’ Douglas says, and Martin sags a little further in his chair.

‘Oh God, am I really that obvious?’ he says, fiddling with a pen.

‘Yes,’ Douglas says uncompromisingly. And then, because he’s not completely heartless and Martin looks so very dejected, he adds, ‘But only to me. I doubt Carolyn will notice, and if Arthur does then he’s easily distracted.’

Martin smiles feebly down at his desk, the corner of his mouth turning up. It’s small but undeniably a smile, and Douglas turns back to his newspaper, satisfied that he’s discharged his role as Martin’s friend. But he reads the same article three times without absorbing any of it, and at last he gives in to his nagging curiosity.

He sets down his newspaper and asks, ‘So what was it? Decided you prefer the ladies?’

‘What?’ Martin’s eyes widen like a deer in the headlights before a wash of red floods up from under his collar. ‘No! No, I… everything in that department is… fine. Really. Fine. Great, even.’ He stumbles to a halt and, when Douglas refuses to demonstrate his satisfaction with this awkward, hesitant answer, he adds ‘Oh, the same problem as always. I never have enough free time to spend with a partner. I’ve tried explaining that I’m an airline captain, but it’s not enough.’

‘And,’ Douglas begins, choosing his words with unusual care, ‘he didn’t know that you…’

‘No, he didn’t know about the van,’ Martin mutters, shoulders hunching slightly.

‘Hmmm.’ Douglas thinks for a moment. ‘Well, what about another pilot, then? Or cabin crew. Surely if anyone know what it’s like not to have enough time at home then–’

‘I _can’t_ ,’ Martin says, tense and miserable. ‘They’d want to know which airline I work for, and from there it’s only a matter of time before they find out that I don’t get _paid_ for this and… I can’t.’

Douglas agrees silently. Martin is a terrible liar and has no poker face whatsoever; his partner would barely have to press him for the truth before it all came spilling out.

‘Martin, you really should think about just telling them,’ Douglas says, trying for firm yet gentle, as Martin seems very tightly wound. ‘Be honest with them upfront, and if they don’t like it then that’s their problem.’

God knows he learned his lesson after the debacle with Helena, and Martin flicks a glance at him, but before he can reply the door swings open.

‘Morning chaps!’

Arthur bounds in, looking chirpy as ever at the prospect of spending yet another day doing what he loves with his friends; Douglas thinks, not for the first time, that it must be wonderful to have such an uncomplicated worldview. Arthur strikes up a conversation with Martin, who responds hesitantly at first but with increasing enthusiasm after a while. It’s almost impossible not to respond to Arthur when he’s genuinely excited about something, and it leaves Douglas free to watch them while Martin’s attention is otherwise engaged.

Douglas has never met any of Martin’s partners, but he suspects that he can guess what the problem is without too much trouble: Martin, as he has demonstrated multiple times by now, is an absolute fool for a pretty face. Combine that with an admiring comment or two at the fact that he’s an airline captain at such a relatively young age, and Martin is smitten. What Martin _actually_ needs – Douglas muses as he watches Arthur pat Martin’s shoulder and tell him that there are lots more fish in the sea ( _except not **really** fish, Skip, because… well, where would you take a fish on a date?_ ) – is someone older. Someone who is perhaps less inclined to go starry-eyed when they find out about his job, but who is _more_ inclined to be stable, and mature, and patient with his lack of free time and his tongue-tied awkwardness.

Douglas has no time to consider it further, however, for just at that moment Carolyn comes in to brief them on their upcoming flight.

***

That day’s trip is to Rome, necessitating an overnight stay. After the threat of outright mutiny Carolyn has grudgingly agreed to book a better class of hotel, on the condition that they were only getting two rooms for the three of them and that they’d have to sort out the sharing arrangements among themselves. Martin and Douglas had tossed a coin during the flight to see who was sharing with Arthur – Martin firmly refusing all other suggestions for how to settle the matter and declaring that at least with a coin toss he had a fifty-fifty chance – and Martin, quite startlingly, won it.

So now, with dusk falling over the city, Douglas exits his and Arthur’s room and goes to knock on Martin to see if he can coax him out to find dinner somewhere. Martin, still giddy with delight at winning his hotel room, is easy to coax, and Arthur is almost impossible to contain when he’s in a new place, and so half an hour later they’re seated in a small restaurant that was promisingly crowded when they walked past it.

After they’ve ordered they chat about this and that, and Douglas watches at first covertly and then more openly as Martin all but devours the free breadsticks on the table. Their meals arrive in short order, and Martin practically _inhales_ his spaghetti bolognaise, until Douglas is moved to ask, ‘Martin, please tell me that you’ve been feeding yourself lately. That van job is fairly steady work, or so I thought.’

Martin glances at Arthur, obviously hoping he’ll chime in with a convenient non-sequitur, but Arthur stays blessedly silent and Martin swallows and is forced to answer.

‘It’s usually steady work, yes,’ he mutters, twirling his fork in his spaghetti and not looking at Douglas. ‘But I’ve been taking fewer jobs lately. Trying to have more free time to spend with Andrew.’ He laughs shortly. ‘Which was a wasted effort, all things considered.’

‘Oh Martin,’ Douglas sighs, but Martin lifts his head to glare at him and snaps, ‘ _Don’t_.’

For once, Douglas holds his tongue on the subject and talks instead about a trip to Rome he made back when he was newly qualified, when one of his current dining companions probably still had ambitions to become an aeroplane and the other not even born.

The pizza he’s ordered is delicious but the portions here are generous to say the least, and at last he has to admit defeat. He cuts the remaining, untouched part into slices and pushes his plate towards Martin and Arthur.

‘Here,’ he says. ‘Any volunteers to help me out?’

‘Really?’ Arthur says.

‘Really,’ Douglas confirms and Arthur pounces on a slice, having a seemingly endless appetite for real Italian pizza. Martin hangs back and narrows his eyes at Douglas, obviously suspecting an attempt at charity that he doesn’t want to take, and Douglas rolls his eyes.

‘It’s too much for me,’ he tells Martin bluntly. ‘And it would be dreadfully rude to send it back to the kitchen only half-eaten. You can leave Arthur to finish it if you like, but he’ll quite possibly make himself ill. And may I remind you that _I’m_ the one who has to share a room with him tonight.’

Martin’s face softens into a not-quite smile and he picks up a piece. It’s oddly satisfying to see him digging into it, and after a short while there are only a few crumbs and smears of olive oil left on the plate and Martin leans back in his chair with a contented sigh.

‘That was great,’ he says. ‘Thanks.’

He looks awkward while saying it, obviously unused to thanking Douglas for anything, but Douglas refrains from teasing him and merely says, ‘You’re welcome.’

‘Dessert?’ Arthur chips in, looking hopeful, as their plates are efficiently whisked away and three dessert menus dropped on the table, and Martin’s groan echoes Douglas’.

‘Arthur, you can’t _possibly_ still have room after that,’ Martin protests, and Arthur looks at him as though he’s just spoken in gibberish.

‘There’s always room for dessert, Skip,’ he explains, with a wonderfully patient look. ‘You know… you finish your meal and you think you’re full until someone mentions dessert, and then you find that there’s still space left after all.’

Martin smiles at Arthur’s earnest explanation, but shakes his head.

‘I don’t think I can,’ he demurs, but his eyes stray to the menu and Douglas can almost _see_ him adding up the cost of his meal, plus perhaps a coffee, plus a tip. On impulse, he says, ‘Come on, my treat.’

Arthur merely gives a pleased noise and starts to read the menu, but Martin looks startled. ‘What?’

‘My treat,’ Douglas repeats, nudging a menu towards him. ‘Go on.’

Martin doesn’t take it. ‘Why?’

Douglas sighs. For being as poor as a churchmouse, Martin is surprisingly stubborn about accepting help, be it financial or otherwise.

‘Because you’re newly single, and this is what friends do for each other,’ Douglas says. ‘The more traditional route would be to go out and get really spectacularly roaring drunk but, things being as they are,’ he raises a pointed eyebrow, ‘then dessert will have to suffice. Alright?’

‘Alright,’ says Martin, subdued, and picks up the menu. ‘Thank you.’

He scans it, and Douglas turns his attention to his own. He doesn’t care to analyse this sudden burst of philanthropy too closely. Martin always seems to look as though he’s one step away from his last tenner, but up until now Douglas hadn’t felt any particular urge to take him out and _feed_ him, and he puts it down to the kicked puppy look Martin had that morning in the office. Martin had better find someone to settle down with soon; it he keeps on getting dumped so peremptorily and looking so unbearably _sad_ about it then Douglas suspects he’ll find himself spending rather more than he usually does in an average trip.

Desserts and coffee are ordered and consumed, and afterwards they stroll back to their hotel, taking the long way around to see some of Rome’s famous buildings illuminated against the night sky. The conversation flows easily among the three of them – with Martin challenging them to name films set in or around Italy – and when they eventually arrive back at the hotel Douglas realises that he’s had an unexpectedly enjoyable evening.

‘Goodnight chaps,’ Martin says at the door to his room.

‘Goodnight, Skip,’ Arthur beams, and makes for his and Douglas’ room, but Douglas lingers for a moment.

‘See you at eight o’clock for breakfast?’ he asks, and Martin nods. His cheeks are flushed slightly from their walk; he looks sleepy and well-fed, with the pinched look of that morning nowhere in sight, and Douglas wondered when the last time was that Martin ate until he was really _full_ , rather than just no longer hungry.

‘I would tell you to sleep well,’ Douglas says dryly, unaccountably pleased with himself, ‘but I suspect you will anyway.’

‘I’m sure I will,’ Martin smiles, and then lifts his hand too late to stifle an enormous yawn. Douglas rolls his eyes.

‘Bed,’ he says, and adds, ‘Don’t sleep in.’

It’s a redundant remark, since nothing short of the most utterly incapacitating illness could make Martin miss the chance to fly a plane, and Martin huffs at him as he unlocks his door.

Douglas walks along to his own room, humming under his breath. He can’t quite put his finger on why he feels so cheery, but he’s never been overly inclined to self-analysis and so he shrugs, chalks it up to a good meal in good company, and thinks no more of it.

***

For the next few weeks, things tick over fairly unremarkably. Martin says no more about Andrew, but makes no mention of trying to find a new partner; when Douglas brings this up, on a long and otherwise dull flight, Martin shrugs defeatedly.

‘Well, it’s hopeless, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘It’s always going to be the same problem, at least until Gerti starts to make enough money that Carolyn can afford to pay me and I can stop working with the van.’

Douglas doesn’t point out the likelihood of this happening; Martin’s sagging shoulders and resigned tone of voice indicates that he’s well aware of the chances of this happening. All the same, he doesn’t like to see Martin giving up on finding someone who’ll care about him and he says bracingly, ‘Oh come on now, don’t be like that. There’ll be someone out there – someone else who also has a demanding job, perhaps, so they’ll understand what it’s like to–’

‘Douglas.’ Martin’s voice is quiet but firm. ‘Just leave it. It’s fine.’

It’s clearly not fine, but short of actually setting Martin up on dates then there’s not a lot Douglas can do. He does his best: he doesn’t stop teasing Martin – because he knows instinctively that Martin would fiercely resent any overt show of pity – but he sends fewer barbs his way, and restrains himself with the cheese tray, citing a mild and recently developed (and entirely fictitious) dairy allergy. Martin takes it all in his stride, and if he suspects that any of it is intentional then he gives no sign of it.

After a few weeks of this Carolyn announces at the end of a job that their next one will take them to Bordeaux and that, since there’s a friend of the family who lives there, she and Arthur will be staying overnight with the friend and leaving Douglas and Martin to fend for themselves. All in all there’s nothing to distinguish it from a hundred other trips that they’ve done, save one, and even that isn’t so much a point about the trip itself as a point about the destination. Last year Douglas read about a particular restaurant in Bordeaux and has been intending to try it ever since: it was a tiny, family-run gourmet place that was described in the most complimentary terms and Douglas, who has always had a love of good food even when he was a student and living on beans on toast, has been waiting for a trip to the area. The problem is that he hates dining alone in restaurants. Martin is the obvious choice to accompany him, but things aren’t so simple.

Douglas is happy to cover the bill, as Martin is good company when he’s not worrying about money and even Douglas isn’t about to wrangle the man into going somewhere vastly above his price range and then make him pay for it. But if he lets Martin get wind of where he wants to go then Martin will look it up and refuse point-blank, as said restaurant is rather on the expensive side. And if he just tells Martin to bring smart clothes then he’ll grow suspicious and not rest until he’s extracted the reason from Douglas.

In the end Douglas decides that all he needs to do is to get Martin in the door and sitting down, present him with a fait accompli, and rely on Martin’s inherent British dislike of causing a scene. The dress code, however…

‘Don’t forget to bring a pair of jeans for the trip tomorrow,’ Douglas says in parting, and holds his breath as Martin glances at him, puzzled. Carolyn and Arthur have already left the portacabin, and there’s only the two of them.

‘Why do I need them?’ Martin asks. Martin’s uniform trousers weren’t made to measure and are a little short in the leg; Douglas hasn’t had the heart to point out that this makes him look gangling and awkward.

Instead he says, ‘Well, I was hoping you’d be up for going out to dinner, and I thought you’d want to keep your uniform smart for the next day.’

He mentally crosses his fingers, and sighs in inward relief when Martin says only, ‘Oh. Yes, you’re… you’re right. And yes,’ he smiles, his face lightening unexpectedly, ‘dinner would be good.’

All goes smoothly. That evening, after they’ve checked into their hotel and unpacked, Douglas calls up the restaurant to make a reservation. He showers, dresses, and grabs the spare jacket he bought before going to knock on Martin’s door. Martin, when he answers, raises his eyebrows at the sight of Douglas’ own jacket before frowning in concern.

‘I didn’t bring a jacket,’ he frets, and Douglas holds out the one draped over his arm.

‘Yes, well,’ he lies smoothly. ‘I only remembered at the last minute that it has a dress code; too late to let you know to pack one.’

He glosses tactfully over the fact that, in all likelihood, Martin doesn’t own a smart jacket. Martin takes the jacket, but doesn’t look reassured.

‘It has a dress code?’ Martin bites at the corner of his lip. ‘Are you sure they’ll let me in wearing jeans?’

Douglas glances down at the dark indigo jeans Martin is wearing. They’re very flattering, and Douglas suspects that they were bought years ago, in a flush period, and that they don’t get much of an airing.

‘It’s not that formal,’ he says. ‘It’s a small, family-run place. And perfectly affordable,’ he adds, answering the question that is doubtless running unspoken through Martin’s mind. He’s not lying, technically. This place might be out of Martin’s usual price range but, for tonight, it’s perfectly affordable for him since he won’t be the one paying for it.

‘Alright then,’ Martin says, flushing a little and looking awkward as he always does when his living situation is referred to. He gathers wallet and keys, locks the door behind him, and turns to face Douglas and ask, ‘Will I do?’

Douglas takes a step back and considers Martin, who fidgets under the scrutiny. His jeans fit him much better than his uniform trousers, and the plain white shirt he’s wearing is crisply smart. The jacket will likely be a little big on him; Douglas has always thought that Martin was just skinny but now he sees that there is actually _muscle_ there, it’s just all whipcord leanness in comparison to his own rather bulkier frame.

‘Fine,’ Douglas tells him. ‘Just one thing…’

Martin has his shirt buttoned primly up to his chin like a maiden aunt and Douglas sighs, licks his fingers, and reaches out to flick open two extra buttons.

‘Douglas!’ Martin blurts, startled, and Douglas bats his hands away when they flutter up to try and re-fasten his shirt.

‘Leave it,’ he says. ‘It looks much better like that. You looked so terribly _English_ before.’

‘I _am_ English,’ Martin hisses as Douglas walks off, but he falls into step beside him and Douglas glances over at him to see that the buttons are still unfastened.

‘Well,’ he drawls, as they descend the stairs to the hotel lobby, ‘let’s try not to advertise the fact, shall we?’

The restaurant is a short walk away from the hotel, in the old part of town. It’s down a narrow side street, with a facade that looks old and unassuming, but the outdoor tables are crowded with people laughing and talking in the warm summer evening. Martin follows him quietly as Douglas gives his name for the reservation, and all goes smoothly until they’re seated at the table and Martin starts to look through the menu. His eyes widen at the first page, and Douglas takes a deep breath and prepares for battle. Martin glares at him.

‘You said this was an affordable, family-run place!’ he says, his voice pitched low but thrumming with tension.

‘It _is_ family-run,’ Douglas says, ‘and it’s perfectly affordable for you, since I’m paying.’

‘No,’ Martin says immediately. ‘You can’t. Douglas–’

‘I not only can, I’m going to,’ Douglas says. The food isn’t _that_ expensive – just towards the higher end of the middle of the range – but Douglas can imagine that for someone in Martin’s financial straits it would be too much.

Martin’s jaw tightens mulishly.

‘You can’t. I won’t let you,’ he says, putting his menu down and making as if to stand, and Douglas’ hand shoots out to grab Martin’s wrist.

‘ _Sit down_ ,’ he orders under his breath, and Martin sags back down into his chair. ‘Good.’

He relaxes his grip on Martin’s wrist but doesn’t let go entirely, since Martin still looks ready to bolt.

‘Now listen to me: I read about this place almost a _year_ ago and have been waiting ever since for a trip with a layover in Bordeaux so I’ve no intention of leaving. On a related note, I absolutely _despise_ eating on my own in restaurants, hence I thought that I would invite you to join me. And despite what you may believe about me, I’m not such a cad as to force you to go somewhere that I know full well is above your price range and then expect you to pay for it.’

Out of the corner of his eye Douglas sees their waiter hovering, with an uncomfortable expression that indicates he’s reluctant to interrupt what must look like a lovers’ tiff. Douglas holds up a finger to signify _Just a moment_ , and he nods and vanishes, looking relieved.

‘Finally,’ he says, ‘I’m aware that this isn’t the sort of place where you would normally choose to eat, but it falls fairly comfortably within _my_ price range.’

Martin looks away at this, flushing and shifting in his seat. Douglas dislikes referring to the discrepancies in their income, since it’s a subject that’s off-limits by unspoken agreement, but Martin’s wrist is still tense under his palm and he feels the need to remind him. Martin makes to withdraw his hand and Douglas lets go, realising belatedly with a surge of embarrassment that he’d been stroking his fingertips along the inside of Martin’s wrist to calm him, the way he used to do with Helena.

‘Now I’d very much appreciate it,’ Douglas murmurs quietly, while Martin fidgets and rubs at his wrist (Douglas hadn’t been holding him that hard, surely?), ‘if you would pick up your menu and decide what you would like to drink so that our waiter can stop lurking over there looking awkward and make himself useful.’

Martin pauses, teeth worrying at his lower lip, and Douglas holds his breath. He’s yet to meet anyone who can beat Martin for stubbornness and bloody-mindedness, but at last Martin slowly reaches for his menu and Douglas lets out a small sigh of relief.

‘Thank you,’ he murmurs, turning his attention to his own menu.

Martin huffs a small laugh. ‘Thank _you_ ,’ he says. ‘This is… nice.’

Douglas raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re welcome,’ he says, and lets a bit of his usual sarcastic, teasing tone show in his voice. ‘Is it really so unbelievable that I should do something nice for you every now and then?’

Martin doesn’t answer, only bites his lip and studies his menu intently as his ears turn red, and Douglas sighs inwardly.

He grew up with three brothers; the Richardson household had been noisy and boisterous, and the leg-pulling and practical jokes had barely stopped, but it had only ever been in fun. Martin doesn’t talk about his childhood or his parents – beyond his spectacularly unsupportive father – but Douglas has the impression that it was rather different and he resolves, at some point in the near future, to ensure that Martin is aware that Douglas is only truly, icily polite to people he dislikes.

The food arrives and it is, as expected, fantastic. Their waiter took pains to explain that the restaurant prided itself on the quality of the meat they serve, and when Martin takes the first bite of his steak he makes a noise in the back of his throat that’s verging on indecent and makes Douglas almost choke on his own mouthful.

‘Good, is it?’ he asks dryly, and Martin flushes.

Martin looks surprisingly lovely in the candlelight. Douglas has had his fair share of dalliances with other men, but his type is usually bluff, hearty men like himself, built like rugby players and strong enough that sex is a bit like wrestling. He’s never looked twice at the more slender young men; if he’d met Martin years ago, while he was still sowing his wild oats, then Douglas is sure that he wouldn’t have given him a second glance. But age has taught him to look more closely at things that he previously would have passed over, and now he looks at the strong line of Martin’s throat and the dip between his collarbones, at the corded muscle on his forearms that’s revealed by the crisply rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt, and the narrow strength of his wrists. The gaping collar of his shirt shows off the delicate wings of his collarbones and the start of the muscles of his chest, and the low lighting of the restaurant makes his hair gleam a rich, deep auburn.

That particular shade always makes Douglas think of dark, deep woodland and wild creatures, an association that’s reinforced when Martin shuffles skittishly in his chair and wipes the corners of his mouth self-consciously.

‘What is it?’ he asks, and Douglas realises that he’s been staring. ‘Do I have something on my face?’

‘No, nothing.’ Douglas is quick to reassure him. ‘You’re fine. Apologies, I was… lost in thought.’

Martin isn’t appeased quite so easily. ‘Are you sure? People seem to be… looking.’

At first Douglas is ready to dismiss it as Martin’s usual paranoia, but he pays attention for a moment and realises that he’s right, that there are a few discreet glances being thrown their way. They must look like a couple: like a well-to-do older man taking his younger boyfriend out for dinner, what with Martin’s coltish good looks and the way Douglas has just caught himself staring at him. Normally, if this was any other trip – hell, if it was even that trip to Rome last week – Douglas would murmur his findings to Martin in the expectation that they’d have a good laugh about it. But this time he doesn’t.

He tells himself that it’s because it would make Martin feel awkward, but deep down a small voice suggests that it’s because it might actually be rather nice if their assumptions were true. If Douglas was treating his partner to dinner at a nice restaurant, and that afterward they were going to retire to their hotel room and Douglas would peel those snug-fitting jeans off Martin’s narrow hips and use his mouth to –

‘Douglas!’ Martin hisses, and Douglas comes back to himself. His face is uncomfortably warm and Martin is frowning at him in concern.

‘Are you feeling alright?’

‘Fine,’ Douglas says abruptly, reaching for his water glass and wishing it was something stronger.

‘Because if you’re not then we ought to go back to the hotel,’ Martin says, looking doubtful.

‘Absolutely not,’ Douglas says immediately. ‘We haven’t even had the cheese course yet and believe me, if you think the cheese tray on Gerti is something to get excited about then you are going to go _wild_ for this.’

‘Even so–’

‘I was actually thinking that those glances we’re getting seem to be directed more at you than at me.’

As Douglas had known, this changes the subject; Martin bites his lip and looks away.

‘Look, these are the nicest jeans I have, and you said–’

‘No,’ Douglas cuts him off. ‘No. I meant,’ he clears his throat, ‘I meant that you look good.’

Martin narrows his eyes, clearly expecting that this is the prelude to a joke at his expense, and Douglas tries again. ‘I mean it. Your shirt – it suits you.’

‘Douglas…’ Martin’s tone is warning, uncertain, and Douglas doesn’t push it. He leans back as the waiter comes to take their empty plates, and afterwards he rests his forearms on the table and asks, ‘Have you read the new John Grisham?’

He knows that Martin is a member of his local library, and hence that books are a safer topic of conversation than films (which Martin hasn’t seen because he can rarely afford the time or the expense of a cinema trip) or TV programmes (ditto, because even second-hand televisions cost money, to say nothing of a TV licence), and Martin lets himself be drawn into a discussion of spy novels for the rest of the meal.

The cheese course is as good as anticipated – warm goat’s cheese on toasted bread with a garnish of orange-infused honey. Douglas takes a bite and chews appreciatively, but when Martin takes a mouthful he closes his eyes and gives a little moan. Half an hour ago Douglas would have teased him about it and they would have moved on; now, with his awareness of Martin’s attractiveness fresh in his consciousness, his mind points out helpfully that it sounds as though Martin is trying not to have an orgasm then and there, and Douglas bites the inside of his cheek and knows that he’ll be replaying that noise in his head in private moments.

Afterwards, when they’ve finished their coffee and Douglas has paid (Martin twitched when Douglas handed his card to the waiter, but only said awkwardly, ‘Thank you for dinner’), they stroll back to the hotel, slow and languid with good food and, in Martin’s case, a glass of wine that Douglas had insisted he order to complement the steak.

Martin is good company when he’s not stressing about being as professional and captain-like as he can possibly be, and Douglas bumps their shoulders together companionably and says, ‘I like you when you’re not trying so hard to be the captain. You’re fun.’

Martin rolls his eyes.

‘Thanks. But if I didn’t try so hard then everyone would think you’re the captain even more than they already do.’

‘No,’ Douglas disagrees, and tries to explain. ‘The reason _why_ people think I’m the captain, Martin, is because I look as though I haven’t a care in the world. A real captain knows that it’s the first officer’s job to run around and get into a flap about things. It’s his job to sit back, assess the situation and give the orders.’

Martin looks as though he’s about the refute this and Douglas says warningly, ‘ _Martin._ I’m not telling you this for the benefit of my health. I’m telling you this, so that… well. Just bear it in mind.’

Even though they’re walking the night air is cool, and by the time they reach the hotel then Martin is wearing his borrowed jacket rather than carrying it. Douglas walks him to the door of his room, still debating the merits of Poirot vs Sherlock Holmes, and once there Martin gets out his key but makes no move to unlock the door. Martin’s face is lightly flushed from the wine and the walk home; he’s loose-limbed and well-fed and looks, frankly, kissable. After a few moments Douglas suspects he’s not the only one harbouring such thoughts: tiredness must be over-riding Martin’s manners and sense of self-preservation because Douglas realises with a deep-rooted thrill that Martin is watching his mouth as he speaks, lips slightly parted.

_What the hell,_ thinks Douglas. It’s been a bit of an odd night all round, he may as well carry on the general theme, and so he cups Martin’s face in a hand and says ‘Martin, I hope you won’t mind my indulging a foolish whim but I just want to try something,’ and kisses him.

For a long moment, everything goes perfectly. Martin’s lips are slightly parted with surprise, and Douglas brushes his tongue gently against the lush curve of the lower one. He kisses Martin slowly, carefully, and Martin’s hand comes up to clutch at his shirtfront. Emboldened, Douglas rests his other hand on Martin’s waist through shirt and jacket and draws his lower lip between his own, sucking just the tiny bit, and Martin makes a noise deep in his throat and starts to kiss back.

It only lasts a second, however, before Martin’s hand twists in Douglas’ shirtfront and shoves him away.

‘What are you doing?’ Martin asks. He looks utterly shocked (and also, Douglas can’t help but notice) thoroughly kissed – his eyes wide and colour high on his cheekbones.

‘Well,’ Douglas begins, leaning ever so slightly into the pressure of Martin’s hand on his chest, ‘I’m–’

‘You,’ Martin stutters, ‘you’re not… you can’t possibly…’

His breathing has quickened and Douglas says ‘ _Martin,_ ’ trying to catch his attention, but it’s too late: Martin’s face crumples and he looks suddenly, horribly, as though he’s about to cry.

‘This has all been a joke, hasn’t it?’ he says, voice shaking. ‘This whole evening, with you telling me I looked nice, and lending me a jacket… You were bored without Carolyn and Arthur, and thought that you’d store up material for more teasing. Or some sort of bet with Carolyn, or the blokes at your pub.’

Shock dulls Douglas’ wits, and all he can say is, ‘You think–’ before Martin’s speaking again.

‘Or were you going to go through with it?’ he asks, and takes his hand off Douglas’ chest as though burned. ‘Did you think that because you paid for dinner that you had the right to follow me into my room and just–’

Douglas finds his tongue at this and immediately says ‘No,’ horrified, because he might be a bit of a bastard at times but he’s never _that_ much of a bastard.

‘Here,’ Martin says. He shrugs off Douglas’ jacket and shoves it into his arms. ‘Take it. As soon as I can get to a cashpoint then I’ll give you the money for half of the bill. More than half, because I had wine and you–’

‘Stop it,’ Douglas spits roughly. Leaving aside the fact that he knows very well that Martin can’t afford it, it’s _hateful_ to hear Martin speaking like this, coldly dissecting something that was supposed to be a treat for him. Martin’s hands are shaking when he fishes his key card out of his jeans and he drops it on the floor; they both bend down to retrieve it and their hands brush, making Martin recoil.

‘Please listen,’ Douglas says, making his voice as calm as he can manage, but before he can continue the next door along opens and the guest pokes his head out. He scowls at them, and tells them in French and in no uncertain terms that it’s far too late to be making so much noise. Douglas glares back at him, and retorts that it’s only just past eleven o’clock and that perhaps Monsieur could mind his own business, and turns back to Martin.

But the interruption has given Martin enough time to slot his key into the door and open it, and Douglas turns back just too late to stop Martin bolting into his room and shutting the door in his face. Douglas clutches the borrowed jacket bundled in his arms; it’s still warm from Martin’s body heat and smells faintly of him. He’s strongly tempted to hammer on Martin’s door and insist that he listen to him, or just speak his explanations straight through the woodwork, but the neighbour is still watching him suspiciously and Martin would be _mortified_ if security arrived to remove Douglas from outside his door. So, in the absence of any other options, Douglas turns around and walks heavily back to his own room.

***

The next morning there’s no answer when Douglas taps on Martin’s door to invite him down for breakfast, and when he goes down to the dining room he finds Martin already seated at a small table in the corner. His captain’s jacket is hung neatly over the back of his chair and his shirt sleeves are rolled up, but any similarity with the relaxed young man of last night ends there. Martin’s shirt is buttoned all the way up and he’s wearing his tie – the very image of a young, successful airline captain. He’s reading a PD James book (its plastic cover indicating that it’s library property), resting it on the table at a careful distance from his plate and any stray crumbs, and he barely glances up from it when Douglas comes to stand by the table.

‘Can I join you?’ Douglas asks.

Martin shrugs. ‘There isn’t another place setting.’

It’s true – Martin’s little table has clearly only been set for one person – but it’s not an outright ‘No’ and so Douglas drags a chair over and pinches the cutlery and crockery from another table, ignoring the disapproving glare from the single over-worked waitress on duty. Martin’s plate is empty save for a scattering of crumbs and he cradles a coffee cup in one hand. He stares fixedly at his book but his eyes don’t skip back and forth over the lines and slowly, under Douglas’ scrutiny, his ears start to flush, always a sure sign of Martin getting flustered. There are dark circles under his eyes – red-rimmed and slightly bloodshot – that contrast with his usual pallor, and Douglas is selfishly pleased that he clearly wasn’t the only one who had problems sleeping last night. He’d lain awake for a long time, berating himself for thinking that things with Martin could ever be as simple as an uncomplicated night of fun with no strings attached, and fallen into uneasy sleep some time in the small hours.

Now he orders a strong coffee and croissant from the young waitress who comes over and, when she’s gone, he begins, ‘Martin, about last night…’

Martin shuts his book with a snap, cutting him off, and drains his coffee.

‘Carolyn is picking us up in half an hour,’ he says, setting his cup down and wiping his mouth on his napkin. ‘I’ll see you in the lobby. Don’t be late.’

‘Martin–’ Douglas says, but Martin picks up his book and unhooks his jacket from over the chair and walks off, leaving Douglas sitting on his own and the recipient of several disapproving looks from other guests. He sees his nemesis from last night sitting on the far side of the room and looking smug, and Douglas groans. From wealthy older man with a gorgeous younger lover to presumed sex pest in the space of twelve hours. How the mighty have fallen.

***

Their interaction at breakfast sets the tone for the flight back. Martin doesn’t address a single word to him that isn’t to do with flying; when Carolyn picks them up then they’re only in the taxi for five minutes before she starts to narrow her eyes at them as though she can see the argument hanging in the air between them. But Arthur is eager to tell them all about his and Carolyn’s visit with the friend of the family, and his chatter fills up the large gulf that’s opened between him and Martin.

Martin remains stubbornly silent all the way back, ignoring Douglas’ repeated apologies as though he hasn’t spoken, and the distance between Bordeaux and Fitton seems to have increased to an agonising stretch of time that feels as though it will never be over. But at last it is, and the moment the post-landing checks are completed then Martin is out of his seat and through the door before Douglas has finished undoing his seatbelt, leaving Douglas to sigh and rub his face. What a wretched morning after to a lovely evening.

***

The following few weeks are, if possible, even more wretched. Douglas had hoped that Martin would have cooled off by their next flight, but no such luck; Martin is as remote and distant as ever. He’s deaf to all Douglas’ self-recriminations and admissions that it was a caddish thing to do, and seems not to notice the excruciatingly awkward silence sitting between them that has even Arthur delivering their coffee in stilted, lowered tones and then scuttling out again as soon as he can.

‘We’ll have to stop fighting, darling,’ Douglas says lightly on one such occasion, ‘we’re making the children nervous.’

But Martin only turns his face away as though Douglas has just voiced the most vulgar insult he’s ever heard.

Ironically, being utterly, silently furious makes Martin far more authentically captain-like then he’s ever been when he’s been earnest and slightly nervous and eager to please. He overrules several of Douglas’ decisions without discussion or explanation, and he stops doing any more of the paperwork than is absolutely required of him, forcing Douglas to pull his weight for the first time since he joined MJN. Douglas has also started to offer him first pick of the cheese tray but Martin coolly declines each and every time. It makes Douglas feel uncomfortably like he’s eating Martin’s leftovers, and consequently Arthur ends up eating more cheese than can possibly be good for him.

Douglas would have bet any amount of money that Martin’s temper would be quick rather than slow-burning. He wouldn’t have thought Martin capable of maintaining this cold silence for longer than a few days, but three weeks after their trip to Bordeaux Carolyn sticks her head into the portacabin where Martin and Douglas are each filling out their sections of the post-flight paperwork in frosty silence.

‘Martin,’ she says peremptorily, ‘a word, if you please.’

Martin’s face is startled, and then his jaw tightens grimly and he gets up and goes. No sooner has the door shut behind him then Carolyn sticks her head back in and fixes Douglas with a glare.

‘Don’t go anywhere,’ she tells him. ‘You’re next.’

Douglas has no idea what she says to him, but fifteen minutes later Martin comes back in and sits down with his face carefully impassive.

‘Everything okay?’ Douglas can’t help but ask. He’s half-expecting no response at all, but Martin grunts ‘Fine,’ at him as he bends over his paperwork again.

The door opens again.

‘Douglas,’ Carolyn says, in acidly sweet tones. ‘Come here.’

Douglas feels Martin’s eyes on his back as he leaves, and when he closes the door of the portacabin behind him then Carolyn jerks her head brusquely and they walk several yards away, far enough that their conversation can’t be heard inside the cabin. Carolyn turns to face him, fixes him with a glare, and demands, ‘What have you done?’

‘I’m…’ Douglas shifts his weight. ‘I’m not sure what you–’

‘Don’t play innocent with me, Douglas Richardson, I know you far too well for that,’ Carolyn snaps. ‘Something’s happened between you and Martin – you’ve not been speaking to each other for a good three weeks now. I know Martin to be a good-natured soul, if often rather pedantic and naïve, and so I don’t for a moment imagine that whatever this is was caused by him.’ She pauses for breath, and adds, ‘Not to mention the fact that he’s been looking downright miserable. And so I ask you again: what did you do?’

Douglas chews at the corner of his mouth, and temporises, ‘What did Martin tell you?’

‘Nothing!’ Carolyn exclaims in exasperation. ‘Do you think that I would be asking _you_ \- the master of lies and evasion – if I was able to get the story elsewhere?’

Douglas shakes his head. ‘I can’t tell you.’

Carolyn’s hands twitch and for a moment he thinks she may honestly be about to throttle him, but she only says, ‘Douglas, this is no time for–’

‘I can’t,’ he says, standing his ground and folding his arms stubbornly over his chest. ‘Yes, we’ve had an argument and yes, it was my fault. But I’m trying to resolve it, and I know that it would annoy Martin even more if he found that I’d been discussing the cause of the argument behind his back. You know very well that he keeps his private life private.’

Carolyn accepts this, or seems to. She looks away and sighs. ‘Whatever it is, fix it. Believe it or not I do actually like Martin, and not only do I dislike seeing him unhappy – although if you tell him that then I will ensure you regret it – but it makes for an unbearably awkward atmosphere on Gerti.’

‘Understood,’ Douglas murmurs. He pauses and then, when no more is forthcoming, asks, ‘Is that all?’

Carolyn flaps a hand, effectively dismissing him. ‘Yes, that’s all. Run along, now.’

Douglas is about to leave when something occurs to him and he says, ‘Actually, Carolyn, there _is_ something you could do.’

Carolyn raises an eyebrow at him. ‘I don’t recall offering.’

‘Alright then, I’m asking,’ Douglas says, exasperated. ‘For the love of heaven, loosen the padlocks on the company purse and buy the man a new pair or two of uniform trousers.’

‘What?’ Carolyn looks baffled/

‘Trousers,’ Douglas repeats. ‘His current ones are too short, and it makes him look ridiculous.’

‘I didn’t think he’d noticed,’ Carolyn says. ‘Or cared.’

‘Well he does,’ Douglas retorts. ‘Take it out of my wages if you have to, but just do it.’ He hesitates, and adds, ‘And don’t let him know I was the one who told you.’

‘Alright,’ Carolyn says, a gleam in her eye, and as he walks away Douglas suspects that his next paycheck is going to be smaller than usual.

Martin doesn’t move when Douglas re-enters the cabin, but the line of his shoulders looks tense enough that Douglas’ own muscles almost start aching in sympathy, and as he passes Martin’s desk he says, under his breath, ‘You needn’t worry, I didn’t tell her anything.’

Martin’s shoulders twitch but he makes no sign of having heard Douglas, and Douglas sighs and sits back down at his desk.

***

At some point Carolyn must harangue Martin into going shopping with her because he turns up to work one day in trousers that actually fit him properly. Douglas isn’t sure who the last owner of the MJN captain’s uniform was – because he doesn’t imagine for a moment that Carolyn bought a new one – but he was clearly a man much shorter and fatter than Martin. Martin’s new trousers don’t ride up to a ridiculous height above his ankles when he sits down and, when Martin takes off his jacket and turns round, Douglas notes that they hug the curve of his arse in a way that his old ones didn’t. Even thought all he’s apparently done is to render Martin even more of a distraction Douglas can’t regret it, since Martin seems quietly pleased by his new attire.

For since their kiss, Douglas is dismayed to find that Martin has the power to distract him. In the absence of their usual banter, Douglas finds himself noticing the deftness of Martin’s hands as they dance over the instrument control panel, and the place on the nape of his neck where his hair curls over his shirt collar. Martin seems unaware of his scrutiny, for the most part, but every so often Douglas doesn’t look away in time and Martin catches him. It infuriates Martin when he does, flicking switches viciously as though they’ve done him a personal wrong, and on one such occasion Douglas, exasperated, says, ‘Don’t you think that if I’d done it with the intention of publicly mocking you then I’d have _done_ it by now?’

‘I’m sure you’re just saving it up,’ Martin retorts. ‘Waiting for the moment when it would cause maximum embarrassment.’

‘If I’d have been wanting to embarrass you,’ Douglas points out, ‘then I’d have engineered it so that you kissed me. As it is, it’s the other way around.’

‘As though anyone’s going to believe that,’ Martin huffs, before remembering that he’s not supposed to be speaking to Douglas and falling obstinately silent.

But he hasn’t said that Douglas would never have been able to induce Martin to kiss him, which Douglas finds (dimly, tentatively) hopeful.

The breaking point comes several days later. Douglas gets up to use the toilet during a long flight, and when he gets back it’s to find a plain white envelope sitting on his seat. Martin is staring straight ahead, as though he hasn’t noticed it, and Douglas picks it up and sits back down. Lifting the flap, he sees that it contains money and he looks at Martin.

‘What’s this?’ he asks, hoping that his voice emerges in a reasonable tone and not the ominous growl that’s sitting at the back of his throat.

‘For dinner,’ Martin says, after a long pause. ‘That time. You wouldn’t let me see the bill so I don’t know how much it was, but I’ve estimated and added a bit more to cover wine and–’

‘I don’t want it,’ Douglas interrupts.

‘Tough,’ Martin snaps, in an uncharacteristic flare of temper. ‘It’s yours.’

Douglas looks down at the sad, dog-eared envelope, with its pitiful bundle of tenners and fivers, and thinks about Martin living on beans on toast and the occasional jacket potato so that he can afford his van’s petrol and MOT and insurance.

‘Dinner was a gift,’ he says, trying to pass Martin the envelope.

Martin refuses to take it, almost fighting him off, and Douglas grits his teeth.

‘If you don’t take this back, you bloody-minded _mule_ ,’ he growls, ‘I’m marching straight out there right now to announce to Carolyn, Arthur, and that rather attractive photographer I saw you eyeing up when he boarded that we not only kissed in Bordeaux, but that I also shagged you rotten. Twice.’

Martin's face is a picture of horror. ‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Try me,’ Douglas replies.

He gets up from his seat, but before he can take a step Martin says, ‘Alright, alright. Fine. Here.’

He snatches the envelope out of Douglas’ hands and stuffs it into his jacket pocket.

‘Martin Crieff,’ Douglas says, sitting back down. ‘For the record, you are the stubbornest bastard I’ve never had the pleasure of working with.’

Martin doesn’t reply to this and, glancing over, it strikes Douglas that he looks tired. Exhausted, even, and Douglas wonders if he’s been taking extra jobs to pull together the contents of that envelope.

‘Do you know the real reason I dislike Herc so much?’ Douglas asks. He’s not really expecting a response and he doesn’t get one, but Martin almost glances over at him before catching himself.

‘It’s because,’ Douglas continues, ‘many years ago, he had an unparalleled, front row seat for a rather messy and painful break-up I had with a young man named Jack. I started drinking rather heavily as a result, and was hauled up on disciplinary charges once or twice. Herc and I have always been friendly rivals, but even so. I _hate_ that he’s seen me at such a low point. He’s never made any mention of it overtly, but he’s never quite let me forget it, either.’

Douglas looks over to find Martin watching him. His face is open, unguarded, but wariness lurks at the back of his eyes and Douglas shrugs.

‘It’s all true,’ he says. ‘You can check with Herc – I’m sure he’ll be only too pleased to tell you all the gory details.’

Douglas lapses into silence afterwards, lost in thought about Jack. Jack, who had freckles on the bridge of his nose, and who was merry as a jackdaw, and who shagged as though he was training for an Olympic sport.

‘That…’ Martin says suddenly, breaking into Douglas’ reverie, ‘that sounds… pretty rotten, actually.’

They’re the first words that Martin has spoken to him in weeks that aren’t either about their job or refutations of Douglas’ apologies for that night, and Douglas is disproportionately relieved to hear them.

‘Oh well,’ he shrugs. ‘I got over it. Water under the bridge, and all that.’

‘Mmm,’ Martin says, distantly, and Douglas adds, ‘And my brothers helped.’

‘You have brothers?’ Martin says.

It’s barely a question but Douglas seizes it and starts to tell Martin about his large and rather exuberant family. Martin doesn’t contribute much beyond the occasional ‘Mmm,’ or half-smile, but Douglas carries on talking, until it seem that Martin’s posture isn’t quite so tense as before. Over the course of his stories, Douglas is careful to imply – as strongly as he can without actually stating it outright – that he only teases people he likes, and that he and his siblings are only really formal and coolly polite to people they dislike. Douglas has no idea what Martin’s childhood was like but he gets the impression that the verbal banter was less teasing and more barbed than in the Richardson household, given the way Martin is so quick to go on the defensive and desperately hates looking like a fool.

It’s not much, but after the flight then Martin takes his time over his paperwork, rather than dashing through it, and on the way out he pauses by Douglas’ desk to say, ‘See you tomorrow.’

Douglas has no idea whether Martin actually speaks to Herc about Jack. He suspects that he does, since Herc has a horribly self-satisfied look the next time he sees Douglas, but at least the average temperature in the flight deck has increased a few miniscule degrees from ‘Arctic’, so Douglas grits his teeth and accepts it. Martin warms up to him slightly afterwards, and Douglas decides that if personal information on Douglas Richardson is what will make Martin feel that they’re on more of an equal footing, then that’s what he’ll give him. It’s difficult – such candour doesn’t come naturally to him – but he manages to drop in references to past relationships (with both men and women) and they capture Martin’s attention almost against his will. On one flight, when the sun has just slipped below the horizon but they’ve not yet put the lights on, Martin says suddenly, ‘Andrew used to get annoyed that I got tongue-tied when I was nervous. He said it made me hard work.’

_You are hard work,_ Douglas thinks, not unkindly. He’s slept with upper-class debutantes who were less reserved than Martin, but he’s never shied away from a challenge. And he’s finding, when an insistence that surprises even himself, that this is one challenge he desperately wants to win.

‘Well,’ he says aloud. ‘Clearly you just need to find someone more patient. Someone who’s happy to wait while you get your thoughts in order.’

Martin makes a vague noise and flicks the light on, clearly growing uncomfortable with the topic of conversation, and Douglas lets it fall in favour of a word game which Martin, amazingly, agrees to play.

***

A few days later, in the middle of a flight to Dubai and safe in the knowledge that Carolyn and Arthur are eating lunch in the cabin and won’t be disturbing them for at least half an hour, Douglas pulls a letter from his jacket with a flourish and hands it to Martin.

‘What’s this?’ Martin asks, even as he untucks the flap of the envelope.

‘I feel I’ve now provided you with enough material on my misspent youth to even the playing field, should you ever start to feel at a disadvantage,’ Douglas says, carefully not looking at Martin’s face and making his tone as light and careless as he can. ‘But just in case you would like further reassurance that I truly have no intention of teasing you about what happened in Bordeaux, then I’m presenting you with the enclosed.’

It’s perhaps a bit of a silly gesture, but it does the trick – Martin’s face had clouded ominously at the reference to Bordeaux but it lightens into unfeigned surprise when he pulls out and reads the handwritten letter.

It states that he, Douglas Richardson, did of his own free will make a pass at Martin Crieff, and did so with no ulterior motive in view save for the fact that he has always been something of an opportunist in sexual matters and had found Martin rather appealing. It’s signed with Douglas’ sprawling, spiky signature at the bottom.

Martin reads it carefully, twice, before re-folding it and tucking it back into the envelope.

‘Thank you,’ he says, a hint of a smile at one corner of his mouth. ‘That’s… a really nice gesture.’

Douglas rolls his eyes at Martin’s tone of surprise, but refrains from any comment other than ‘I do have my moments.’

‘You realise that I might have forged this,’ Martin says, apparently determined to pick holes, and Douglas snorts as he checks their course and makes a minute adjustment.

‘Aside from the fact that making up such a story really _isn’t_ your sort of humour, as anyone who knows you can attest, there’s also the fact that you’re a terrible liar and forger.’

Martin doesn’t contradict this. He stays silent, seemingly working himself up to something; Douglas has a bet with himself about what, and his suspicions are confirmed when Martin blurts, ‘Did you really?’

‘Did I really what?’ Douglas asks airily.

‘You know,’ mutters Martin. ‘Think that I looked good.’

Douglas spares an uncharitable thought for Martin’s ex-boyfriends and says calmly, ‘Yes. I really did.’

‘Oh,’ Martin says.

He doesn’t volunteer anything further and, when Arthur comes in five minutes later to see if they’re ready for lunch, the subject is let fall.

***

Much as Douglas felt like an idiot writing the letter, it seems to have done the trick. Martin is back to his usual self, bickering amicably for the rights to the Brie, and Arthur has stopped sidling mutely into the cockpit looking like someone has died. If Douglas was a different sort of man then he’d be content with the resumption of what passes for normal aboard MJN. But he feels like someone who’s managed to see the hidden picture in a seemingly random pattern, and now he’s seen it he can’t _un_ see it. After their one abbreviated kiss, he finds he can’t stop wanting another one, and another. He wants to see Martin flush from their kisses, his usually pale skin going pink, and grow uncoordinated and flustered. More than that, he wants to take Martin to bed, and find out if he’s noisy or quiet (Douglas would bet he’s quiet – living in a shared house with thin walls would tend to have that effect, surely).

And so, taking heart from the fact that Martin had kissed him back (albeit briefly) before shoving him away, Douglas slowly and subtly begins to court him.

He starts with small, hardly noticeable things. Clearly barging in and going straight for the kill was the wrong way to go about it, as he would have known had he been thinking about it properly. This is _Martin_ , shipwrecked survivor of several sunken relationships, who has more than likely always been the one pursuing and never been the one pursued. So Douglas brings him coffee when he’s doing the flight plans in the portacabin, and leans over his shoulder to suggest alternative, cheaper routes, and makes a point of touching him. Nothing too much – just a hand on his elbow or the small of his back when steering him somewhere, or a touch to his arm to draw his attention where before he would have just said his name. Once, when walking through the old part of Nice after sunset, Douglas ‘accidentally’ brushes the backs of their hands together and watches Martin flush.

He buys Martin the new John Grisham book, when he bemoans the fact that his local library has a long waiting list for it, and brushes aside Martin’s stuttered thanks. He even gives up a day off to drive all the way to bloody Ottery St Mary when Martin calls up in a fix, and not only refrains from criticising Martin’s choice of route and time allowance, but even manages to coax smiles from Martin.

Martin, slowly but surely, starts to respond to the attention, to Douglas’ carefully hidden delight. He stands closer than is really necessary when discussing flight details, and if Douglas makes an innuendo-laden remark then he stutters and blushes even more than usual. It makes Douglas long to just reach out and kiss him, but they never have a moment alone that isn’t interrupted by Carolyn or Arthur. If Martin were anyone else then Douglas would just invite him out to dinner and then back to his place afterwards, but he knows that Martin spends every spare moment he has outside of Gerti taking jobs with his van, and spending an evening with Douglas might mean passing up paying work.

The tension between them grows, however, until one day when Carolyn announces that they’re going to Cairo. And by ‘they’ she means Douglas, Martin and Arthur as she’ll be staying at home; Douglas groans inwardly at Arthur’s presence as unwitting chaperone on their time together but maintains his usual outward impassivity. It’s hardly Arthur’s fault that the first officer of MJN wants to do truly unprofessional things to the captain, and that said activities are hindered by his presence.

As luck (or bad luck) would have it, however, they’re left to themselves for the evening in Cairo. Arthur starts to look a bit peaky toward the end of the flight and, when pressed, admits guiltily that he forgot to prepare lunch for himself and had a nibble on the chicken sandwich that has been lurking in the back of the fridge for an uncomfortably long time. So, that evening, Douglas leaves him installed in the room they’re sharing with a plentiful supply of bottled water and instructions to call either of them if he needs anything.

(Douglas and Arthur are sharing a room _again_ , due to Carolyn’s continuing tight-fistedness and Douglas’ continuing efforts to demonstrate to Martin that he’s capable of being a considerate and generally decent human being. It’s not how Douglas would ideally prefer things, but if he plays his cards right then this will eventually mean he ends up sharing not only a room but also a bed with Martin, so he makes the best of it.)

Douglas and Martin end up wandering around Cairo’s nicer areas, looking for somewhere for dinner. It’s just like any other flight stopover, save that 1) this is the first evening they’ve had alone together in what feels like far too along and consequently 2) Douglas spent longer than was entirely necessary in front of the bathroom mirror before leaving, at first shaving and then just examining himself critically. He’s nothing to be ashamed of: laughter lines around his eyes, some silver coming in at his temples, and the smallest bit of extra padding covering his muscles than there used to be, as his body slides comfortably into middle age. But he’s still fairly fit, still has his broad shoulders and his dark eyes (that more than one of his exes have sighed over). He’s older than Martin, but Martin has never seemed to mind that. And not to mention the fact that Douglas privately thinks that Martin needs someone older than him. Not some young thing, still too desperate to prove themselves to give him the stability he not-so-subtly craves, but someone older, steadier. Someone who’s more settled and comfortable with themselves, both physically and emotionally; who can ground Martin and curb some of his insecurity.

Someone like Douglas, basically, and when he meets Martin in the hotel lobby and sees the once-over that Martin gives him, failing to conceal his interest, optimism bubbles inside him. They have dinner, chatting comfortably about this and that, and Douglas mentally congratulates himself every time he makes Martin smile or laugh. It feels like a date and, although he’s not said as much to Martin, from the way Martin glances at him out of the corner of his eyes and watches Douglas’ mouth when he forgets himself, Douglas thinks that he might not be the only one who thinks so.

They walk back to their hotel slowly. It’s been ages since Douglas had Martin all to himself without fear of interruption and he draws out their walk as long as he can, but eventually they’re standing outside the door to Douglas’ room.

‘I had a good time tonight,’ Martin says. ‘I’m… pleased we’re speaking again.’

‘Likewise,’ Douglas says. ‘That’s not a month I wish to repeat.’

Martin makes a noise of agreement. He’s standing well and truly inside Douglas’ personal space; he picks nervously at his cuticles while watching Douglas’ mouth as he speaks. Martin is thinking about kissing him – his internal debate could only be plainer if it was written on his forehead – and just as he takes a deep breath and starts to lean forward, Douglas stills Martin’s nervous hands by covering them with one of his own, and speaks.

‘Martin,’ he says gently, as Martin blinks at him and starts to pull back, eyes shuttering. Douglas lets him withdraw to a reasonable distance, but doesn’t let go of his hands.

‘Martin. If you had the slightest idea of how much it kills me to say this then you’d be nominating me for some sort of award, but the fact is–’ with perfect timing, there’s a burst of riotous laughter from the lobby downstairs, ‘–that this isn’t a particularly private place.’

‘Oh,’ Martin says. He tries to pull his hand away, and Douglas sees that he still hasn’t quite fully understood.

‘And,’ Douglas adds, ‘we’re in a country that’s considerably more… how shall I say… _conservative_ … than France.’

At last Martin’s face clears and understanding dawns. ‘ _Oh._ ’

He looks down at their hands, biting his lip, and offers hesitantly ‘There’s… my room’s just along the corridor, we could… could…’

Douglas groans slightly. ‘If I get into your hotel room, gorgeous boy, I’m not going to want to leave it before breakfast. And probably not even then.’

Martin gives him a withering look, and Douglas can’t work out why until Martin says, ‘I’m a bit old to be called that, don’t you think?’

He’s right. It’s hard to remember that Martin, with his need to prove himself and his awkward inexperience in matters of the heart, is on the far side of thirty.

‘My apologies,’ Douglas says and then, just to shake Martin’s composure, he adds, ‘Nevertheless, it’s best all round if we keep to our separate rooms, I think. The walls are thin here and you might be able to bite your tongue and stay silent, but I know I certainly can’t.’

On cue, Martin’s face reddens and Douglas knows he’s thinking of them together and all the different ways they might be noisy. Their corridor is empty, and so he lifts Martin’s hand to his mouth and presses a lingering kiss to the pulse on the inside of his wrist, smelling the clean scent of Martin’s skin and letting his tongue tip slip out to taste it.

‘Hold that thought,’ he says quietly, watching as Martin’s mouth opens slightly and his eyes grow heavy-lidded. ‘I’ll be wanting to collect on it in the not-too-distant future.’

Martin doesn’t reply but only swallows heavily, and Douglas lets him go reluctantly.

‘I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow,’ he says, and Martin licks his lips and nods.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’ll… see you. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight,’ Douglas says, and watches as Martin walks along to his room, fumbles with his key, and disappears inside.

***

The flight back is a form of exquisite torture. It’s like all those years that Douglas spent married to women and telling himself to ignore flutters of interest at the glance of a good-looking man have now given way like a dam bursting. He can’t _stop_ noticing Martin: the redness of his lower lip, the slight splay of his thighs in his seat, and the little dip between his collarbones that’s now hidden under his shirt but that had looked like a perfect place for Douglas to press his mouth. The curve of Martin’s hand reveals the vulnerable inside of his wrist, but Douglas grits his teeth and reins in his imagination, because he’s damned if he’ll look less calm and collected than Martin.

At last they’re back, taxiing to a halt on home soil and Douglas stretches in relief. They deliver a slightly subdued Arthur to Carolyn in the portacabin for a lecture on food safety and then, when it becomes apparent that Carolyn’s lecture will go on for quite some time, Douglas mutters ‘Bugger this,’ and raises his voice to call ‘Don’t worry about a lift, Carolyn. I’ll get a taxi.’

She waves him away readily enough, and Douglas goes to collect Martin from where he’s dotting the last i’s and crossing the last t’s of his paperwork.

‘Come on,’ Douglas says. ‘Let’s go.’

‘What?’ Martin asks, taken aback, and Douglas perches his hip on the desk. He’s very conscious that Carolyn is more than able to harangue Arthur while also eavesdropping on their conversation, and so he says only ‘You need to come to my house so I can lend you that book. The one on Bordeaux, that we were talking about last night.’

Martin catches on fairly quickly, thank goodness, but he still doesn’t move.

‘I can’t,’ he says, sounding genuinely regretful. ‘I’d love to, but I’ve got a job with the van after this.’

‘It’ll only take a moment,’ Douglas presses, refusing to be ousted by a van job. ‘And then I’ll drop you at your place.’

Martin wavers. ‘Really?’

Douglas holds up his hands, the picture of sincerity. ‘I promise.’

Rather charmingly, Martin flushes. ‘Alright then.’

The taxi ride back to Douglas’ house takes far too long, but eventually they pull up outside it. Douglas pays, waving away Martin’s attempts to contribute – ‘Nonsense, I would have been making this journey anyway,’ – and goes to unlock his front door while Martin gets their bags out of the boot, and then at last they’re standing on the front hall, looking at each other.

‘So…’ Martin says, uncertainly. He’s set his bag down by his feet but hasn’t made any move to go further into the house. In all honesty, Douglas thinks he looks ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

‘So,’ he echoes. Martin clutches his hat in his hands, and fiddles with it until he looks as though he’ll tear it to pieces and Douglas reaches out to take it gently out of his grasp and lay it to one side.

Martin swallows hard, and looks at him. Douglas can see his pulse fluttering just under his jaw, his breath comes in quick, unsteady gulps and his eyes flick nervously between Douglas’ mouth and away again, but he doesn’t move. Martin wets his lips, and something uncoils in Douglas’ chest. It’s almost unbearable to just stand here while Martin darts those little glances at him and his cheekbones flush, and Douglas steps forward.

‘Martin,’ he murmurs. He’s well and truly inside Martin’s personal space now but he doesn’t touch him, not yet. ‘You seemed to have something you wanted to say to me last night and now, in a more private location, I wonder if you’d like to say it.’

‘Yes,’ Martin says. He looks down, and Douglas is almost captivated by the sweep of his lashes. ‘I wonder if you… if I could…’

His words trail off as he reaches out for Douglas, taking hold of his jacket and drawing him in as he lifts his chin, and Douglas is on him before he can complete the action. At the little lift of Martin’s chin, the way his lips part slightly in anticipation, Douglas steps closer still and crowds Martin back against the wall as he finally – finally! – leans down and kisses him.

Their second kiss is very different to their first. This time Martin opens his mouth against Douglas’ immediately and kisses him greedily, his hands clutching at the back of Douglas’ jacket. Douglas kisses him back with equal enthusiasm. He’s gentle at first and then, when he sees how much Martin likes it, harder. He teases Martin with light, shallow touches that barely dip past his lips and then, when Martin is chasing his mouth and silently desperate for more, he tangles his hand in Martin’s hair and _eats_ his mouth like soft summer fruit, until Martin is panting through his nose and his hands are fisted against Douglas’ back. Douglas cups Martin’s face in his hands and kisses him softly, paying separate and particular attention to the cupid’s bow of his upper lip and the luscious curve of his lower, and then slides his hands down over Martin’s chest to grip his waist as he kisses him more deeply.

Feeling daring, Douglas nudges his knee gently between Martin’s own and is quietly delighted when Martin makes a broken noise into his mouth and his knees part to accommodate it. He slides his hands further down, until he clutches Martin’s hips and Martin moans a little as he pushes himself forward unconsciously. Douglas slides his leg further between Martin’s, until he feels Martin’s erection nudging against his hip. He presses against it, rocks lightly, and Martin actually groans into their kiss and starts to push back against the contact.

Douglas is on the verge of grabbing Martin’s arse and encouraging him, wanting to see if he can make Martin come just from that alone, when he feels Martin tense against him. Opening his eyes, he finds Martin looking over his shoulder at the hall clock that Douglas knows is just behind him.

‘Five o’clock,’ Martin groans. His lips are flushed from kisses, and Douglas can’t stop watching them. ‘Shit. Douglas, I’m sorry, but I really do have a job with the van and I have to–’

‘I know,’ Douglas says. He untangles himself slowly, and can’t resist leaning down to steal one last kiss before stepping back. Martin looks halfway wrecked. His fair skin is flushed, his lips slightly swollen, and when Douglas’ gaze wanders further down he sees that Martin has a very obvious erection. He bites his lip when he sees Douglas looking, and tugs futilely at the edges of his uniform jacket to hide it.

‘Come on then,’ Douglas says, turning away to scoop his car keys off the hall table with an air of determination that’s partly to show Martin that he can keep his word and partly to avoid torturing himself with looking at Martin all rumpled and aroused.

‘Right,’ Martin says, and picks up his bag to follow Douglas out the door.

They drive to Martin’s house in silence, only broken by Martin’s quiet directions of ‘Left here,’ or ‘Second exit on the roundabout.’ Yet it’s not uncomfortable: Douglas has a delicious contentment from their kiss, and when he glances over and catches Martin’s eye then Martin looks a bit flustered but undeniably pleased with himself. He lets his hand brush Martin’s leg once or twice, as he changes gear, and sees out of the corner of his eye the way Martin smiles.

It turns out that Parkside Terrace, where Martin lives, is in a bit of a rough area.

‘Well, thanks,’ Martin says, making no move to get out of the car. ‘I appreciate it.’

‘Mmm,’ Douglas says vaguely, noting the monstrosity of a van that’s parked in the driveway and the peeling paint on the front door. He turns to Martin. ‘Look, why don’t you come over to mine when you’re done?’

Martin flushes and opens his mouth, and Douglas holds up his hands.

‘No, not for what you’re thinking,’ he adds. ‘Just for a cup of tea and a chat, that’s all. And only if you want to.’

‘Really?’ Martin says. ‘I don’t know what time I’ll be done, it could go on a while.’

‘Really,’ Douglas says. ‘I tend to stay up fairly late, so I’m sure it’ll be fine. But don’t worry if you don’t want to; otherwise I’ll see you next trip.’

‘Alright,’ Martin says, glancing away but looking pleased. He glances back at Douglas, seeming almost as though he’s about to lean over for a kiss, but at the last minute his courage fails and he turns away and gets out of the car.

Douglas drives home in a meditative frame of mind. He thinks about the van, and the cracked paint on the front door, and the weeds growing up through the paving slabs in the front garden, and when he gets back to his house then it seems ridiculously huge and luxurious. It’s far too big for just him – Helena having graciously volunteered to move out – and he and Helena are in the process of selling it and dividing the funds between them, but these things don’t happen overnight. Douglas hasn’t been especially upset about the idea of selling it and finding somewhere new. He’s been thinking of it as more of a hassle than anything else, but now he finds himself actively thinking about somewhere. Somewhere smaller, where he could put down a large deposit, with perhaps a spare bedroom for when his daughter wanted to come and stay, and a large driveway where one might be able to park an over-large van.

‘Steady, Richardson,’ he mutters to himself as he pulls up outside his house and turns the engine off.

Three divorces have left him justifiably wary of future entanglements, but he can’t stop thinking about the plushly soft curve of Martin’s lower lip, and the way he’s poor as a sparrow but will always try to pay his way. But they’ve not even been to bed together yet, much less had a go at manufacturing something between them, and Douglas is getting far ahead of himself.

So he cooks dinner, and does the washing up, and makes a vague effort to tidy the place up. He even goes so far as to change the sheets on the bed in the spare bedroom (where he’s been sleeping since Helena left – the master bed feels wrong on his own). He tells himself that this doesn’t mean anything but that it never hurts to be prepared. Eventually Douglas settles in front of the television, watching a repeat of a Bond film, and successfully distracts himself with it for most of the evening.

It grows late, and he’s just about resigned himself to the fact that Martin isn’t coming when he hears the low rumble of a cantankerous old engine in the street outside and, shortly after, the slam of a door. It might be nothing, he tells himself. One of the neighbours with a late visitor, perhaps, even as he knows that if any of his neighbours or his neighbours’ friends drove anything like _that_ then he would certainly know about it.

So he’s not entirely surprised when there’s a knock at the front door, and he opens it to find Martin on the step, fiddling with the zip of his jacket.

‘Sorry, I know it’s late,’ is the first thing Martin says, and Douglas doesn’t hesitate but swings the door wide and waves him inside. ‘I just thought I’d drive past, and then I saw your lights were still on, and I–’

‘It’s _fine_ ,’ Douglas says, ushering Martin ahead of him into the living room. Martin’s hair is wet, and Douglas asks ‘Did you take a shower before coming over here?’

Martin laughs. ‘I had to. It took ages – the bloke was moving the contents of his loft and I was filthy by the time it was all done.’

Martin turns to face him in the living room, and Douglas is struck with how exhausted Martin looks, his face pale and bruise-dark circles under his eyes.

‘I think I might have enjoyed seeing you dirty,’ Douglas rumbles, just to see Martin flush, but his heart’s not in it. Martin looks so very weary, and Douglas pushes him gently down onto the sofa while he goes into the kitchen to make two mugs of tea. He brings a packet of biscuits with him when he comes back out, and drops them in Martin’s lap before sitting beside him on the sofa as he says, ‘So what’s the oddest thing he had in his loft, then? People accumulate all sorts of stuff, there must have been some strange artefacts there.’

Martin smiles and starts to tell a story of the time he’d been asked to move a wardrobe that the owner swore was Louis XIVth, and Douglas listens and watches Martin as he speaks. He chooses to take it as a reflection on how exhausted Martin looks and not on Douglas’ libido that all he wants to do is fling a blanket over Martin and tell him to pass out for nine hours or so.

Even so, when Martin finishes his story, Douglas grins appreciatively and feels a little frisson of interest when Martin forgets himself enough to stare at his mouth. Douglas recognises a good cue when he sees it, and he slides forward to close the distance between them on his (frankly tiny) sofa and kisses Martin softly.

He’d meant it as a tentative, exploratory thing, just to see if Martin would be up for some slow, lazy necking on the couch, and Martin’s response leaves him in no doubt. He pauses to take Martin’s empty mug and place it on the coffee table, before going back for another kiss.

Time seems to ebb and flow around them; Martin sinks into the kisses readily and Douglas has one hand burrowed under Martin’s T-shirt to splay against his flat stomach and the other tangled in his still-damp hair when the doorbell goes.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Douglas spits. Martin lifts his head, looking dishevelled and licking his lips.

‘What,’ he says, sounding dazed and kiss-drugged; the doorbell goes again and Douglas grits his teeth.

‘Hold that thought,’ he says, removing his hand from the warm, taut expanse of Martin’s abdomen and getting up to answer the door.

It’s Mrs. Morrison, the old lady who lives next door but one and she can’t find her cat; said animal has a fascination for the inside of Douglas’ garage, and she wonders if he’s in there. So Douglas then has to fetch the keys and open it and spend far too long coaxing the wretched animal out from behind the lawnmower and bicycles, thinking all the while of the gorgeous young man he left on the sofa to come and be hissed at by a rebellious ginger tom.

But Mrs. Morrison is old, and her family don’t live nearby, and so Douglas sighs and fetches a tin of tuna from the cupboard to tempt the thing out, until Mrs. Morrison is able to scoop him up in her arms and scold him for wandering off. He waves her off with a polite goodnight, and decants the opened tin of fish into a container to go in the fridge, resigning himself to tuna sandwiches tomorrow.

He washes his hands to get rid of the lingering smell, before going back to Martin. But when he reaches the door of the living room, he pauses. Martin has quietly, without any fuss or ceremony, laid his head against the back of the sofa and gone to sleep, and Douglas spends a moment just looking at him. His mouth is open slightly, his eyelashes making twin fans just above the curve of his cheekbones, and the line of his neck is long and lovely all the way down to where it disappears into the stretched-out collar of his T-shirt. He’s wearing frayed, washed-out jeans that look as though they’ve seen better days, as have the trainers on his feet.

Douglas sighs. He still doesn’t entirely understand his attraction for Martin. It’s not the fact that he’s a man. Far from it, for Douglas Richardson has always been a bit of an opportunist where that’s concerned. But he’s always gone for people who are smooth and self-confident and polished, and anything less like Martin would be hard to imagine. But he’s never seen anyone work quite so _hard_ for something as Martin does, and it captivates him.

Helena had been beautiful and witty and floated through life gracefully, accustomed to everything being presented to her, and Douglas had wanted to give her the world on a string. But Martin took several tries to get his pilot’s licence, without any financial assistance from anyone, and has the air of someone who’s been fighting his battles alone for a very long time. It makes Douglas want to step in and take his side, and show Martin what it feels like to be able to rely on someone.

And he can’t pretend that Martin’s coltish good looks and kissable mouth have nothing to do with it; despite having had boyfriends before now, Martin gets so flushed and flustered at being attracted to someone that it’s gorgeous, and makes him look so very corruptible.

At last Douglas sighs, and stirs himself. The sofa is too small to fully stretch out on, and if Martin stays like that then he’ll wake with the most horrendous crick in his neck. So he walks over to the sofa, leans down, and presses a soft kiss to the corner of Martin’s mouth.

‘Come on, Sleeping Beauty,’ he murmurs. ‘Up with you.’

Martin comes awake slowly, blinking groggily.

‘Oh God,’ he says, looking around. ‘How long was I asleep?’

‘Not long,’ Douglas tells him, ‘but obviously long enough for you to go under pretty deeply.’

Martin grunts, knuckling at his eyes, and lets his head fall back against the sofa again. He seems unable to keep his eyes open, and Douglas has to nudge him to make him sit up again.

‘Keys,’ he slurs, pawing at his pockets. ‘ ‘m sorry; just let me find my keys and I’ll be off.’

Douglas catches one of his hands.

‘I’m not sure you’re safe to drive,’ he says gently.

Martin scowls at him. ‘Of course I am. I’ve only had tea.’

‘I meant that you’re exhausted,’ Douglas says, as Martin lifts his hand just too late to smother an enormous yawn. ‘I’ve got a spare bedroom, if you want it.’

‘I…’ Martin hesitates, and Douglas can see the internal battle.

‘Come on,’ he says, holding out a hand. ‘I promise I won’t even try to grope you while man-handling you up the stairs.’

If Martin seems to look disappointed at that, well, that’s probably just tiredness and Douglas’ ego playing tricks.

Douglas gets Martin up the stairs, although Martin is all but asleep on his feet, and sits him on the edge of the bed in the spare room, with its component of clean sheets, while he goes to check whether he has a spare toothbrush in the bathroom. When he comes back, saying lightly ‘Only a red one, I’m afraid, not sure what your favourite colour is–’, he stops when he finds that Martin has let himself slump sideways onto the pillow.

Douglas isn’t sure whether he should find this endearing, or slightly concerning that Martin has been working himself so hard, but in the end he supposes it doesn’t matter. Martin is lying down on a soft surface, and with the prospect of several hours’ sleep in front of him, which is the important thing.

Douglas sets the toothbrush on the dressing table, and goes to lift Martin’s legs onto the bed. He takes off Martin’s shoes and socks, and coaxes him to sit up just enough to slide his jacket off his shoulders. And then, with his teeth gritted, he loosens the buckle and zip on Martin’s jeans and pulls them off, trying very hard to ignore the dark russet trail of hair that leads down from his navel to disappear under the waistband of his blue boxers, or the pale, vulnerable skin of his inner thighs that’s just begging to be marked by Douglas’ mouth.

He reflects wryly that in the past, when he’s undressing a gorgeous young man in his bed, then it’s generally for a rather more exciting reasons than ensuring that said man won’t be horrifically uncomfortable when he wakes up.

Finally Martin is down to his boxers and T-shirt, and Douglas nudges him to roll over enough so that he can tug the duvet out from under him. He isn’t sure where he’s going to sleep: he’s been avoiding sleeping in the main bed in the master bedroom since he and Helena split up – sentimental, but true – and the sofa downstairs wasn’t really built for a grown man to stretch out on for a full night’s sleep. But Martin makes that decision for him. As Douglas tugs the duvet over him, Martin stirs and grabs clumsily at Douglas’ forearm and mumbles, ‘Stay.’

Douglas stills. ‘Martin…’

‘No.’ Martin shakes his head muzzily. ‘Not for that. I mean just… stay.’

Douglas brushes Martin’s hair back off his forehead. It’s tremendously tempting. Martin looks warm and limp and lovely like this, and at last Douglas murmurs, ‘Alright.’

He extricates his forearm from Martin’s grip, and when Martin makes a protesting noise Douglas says, ‘I’ll be right back.’

He brushes his teeth in the bathroom and, on the way back to the bedroom, collects a blanket from the airing cupboard. If Martin is insistent on sharing a bed then this is probably the decent way to do it, and Douglas strips down to his T-shirt and boxers before stretching out on top of the duvet and spreading the blanket over himself. Martin rouses at the dip of the mattress under Douglas’ weight, snuffling a bit and turning over to face Douglas, still more asleep than awake. He flings out a hand to rest it on Douglas’ stomach before, apparently satisfied, going limp and sinking back into sleep.

Douglas covers Martin’s hand with his own, and closes his eyes. He’ll just stay over here, keeping his hands to himself, but he’ll allow himself this one small contact. He drifts off to sleep, the thickness of the duvet separating them like some sort of old-fashioned chastity device.

***

Despite his good intentions, Douglas wakes up with an armful of Martin. At some point in the night he’d obviously grown cold, or perhaps just acted on autopilot (since at his age he’s more used to sharing a bed than sleeping on his own), because he’s under the duvet with Martin’s head resting on his left shoulder and cutting off all sensation in that arm. It’s like a furnace under the covers – Douglas has forgotten how much more _heat_ men give out – and he gently pushes the duvet off himself while trying not to wake Martin.

Douglas has always enjoyed the comfortable intimacy of sleeping and waking entangled with someone, and Martin is rather lovely when he’s asleep. He doesn’t snore or squirm about too much, just lies limp and quiescent against Douglas and makes a softly contented noise when Douglas curves his half-dead arm up to rest his palm on Martin’s unruly mop of curls. Douglas squints at the bedside clock and sees that it’s barely half-past seven; the sun is starting to filter in around the edges of the curtains and it’s late enough that he won’t be able to go back to sleep but instead of easing away and getting up he just lies there. It’s been far too long since he had the pleasure of a warm body cuddled against him, and he’s not ready to relinquish it just yet. Martin shifts and Douglas glances down, wondering if he’s waking, but he only sighs a little and nuzzles his face into the curve of Douglas’ neck and shoulder. There’s a soft butterfly kiss of eyelashes against skin that makes Douglas’ heart do something truly alarming; Douglas stares up at the ceiling and, for the first time since that evening in Bordeaux, nervousness flickers in his stomach when he considers what he’s getting himself into.

No-one knows better than him that even the best relationships can break up almost overnight, and he doesn’t have the best track record with this sort of thing. And yet, Douglas _likes_ Martin. He’s been out on dates with girls that weren’t half so much fun as Martin can be when a string of well-paid jobs with the van have left him temporarily carefree and mischievous and willing to be tangled up in Douglas’ word games like a cat in a ball of wool. And they’ve known each other for a while now, which surely gives them at least as good a chance as most other couples.

Martin stirs again but this time, instead of resettling himself and staying peacefully asleep, his eyelids flutter and he raises his head and blinks at Douglas sleepily. Watching Martin’s gently bemused expression, Douglas can pinpoint to the _second_ when Martin realises where he is.

‘Oh God,’ he mutters, tensing. ‘Sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–’

‘It’s fine,’ Douglas says mildly. Martin’s eyes are heavy with sleep but he’s obviously struggling to pull himself together in preparation to pulling away, and Douglas adds, ‘I was rather enjoying it, actually,’ as he lets his hand rest on the back of Martin’s head, just the slightest suggestion that Martin could lie back down where he was. After a moment Martin obliges, and Douglas slides his fingers approvingly through Martin’s hair. He’s hoping that it will relax him slightly; Martin is tense as a bowstring against him and Douglas wonders why until he shifts slightly and his leg presses against Martin’s hips.

Oh.

Martin is hard in his underwear. Nothing to be embarrassed about, as Martin so clearly is; it’s a normal reaction to have, especially when lying in close proximity to someone you’re attracted to. Douglas is also half-hard, but he’s found that one of the few advantages to getting older is that he’s better able to enjoy the slow burn of arousal without feeling a desperate need to get off right this second. Martin, however, is younger than Douglas, and he catches his breath when Douglas nudges against him more deliberately.

Douglas turns his head to press his mouth into Martin’s hair, and murmurs, ‘Good morning.’

Martin lifts his head to meet Douglas’ eyes. ‘Morning.’

Douglas can’t resist moving against Martin again, just to watch him catch his lip in his teeth.

‘I’m pleased to see you too,’ he says, and Martin flushes and looks away.

‘Don’t,’ he says tightly. ‘I can’t help it, I’m not–’

Douglas strokes the backs of his fingers down Martin’s cheek, effectively silencing him.

‘I didn’t say I _minded_ , did I?’ he says, reaching Martin’s chin and tilting his face up towards him.

Martin’s eyes, when he looks up at Douglas, are dark with desire, his lips parted, and Douglas murmurs, ‘Can I kiss you?’

‘Yes,’ Martin says, sounding choked. ‘ _Yes_ –’

Martin surges up and kisses him readily, opening his mouth at the first brush of Douglas’ tongue, and Douglas slides a hand down to cup Martin’s shoulder. Martin is still taut against him but now it’s from a different cause than embarrassment, and Douglas smoothes his hand down onto Martin’s chest and covers his pectoral muscle. The swell of it fits into his hand, and Douglas thinks again that Martin, for all his nerves and shyness, has an unexpectedly good body. He rubs idly back and forth, and makes a note of the little hitch of breath he gets when he finds Martin’s nipple. He rubs against it, working the soft worn cotton back and forth until Martin’s breathing has quickened appreciably.

Douglas rolls onto his side, hooking a foot around Martin’s ankle to tangle their legs together and Martin presses closer. Douglas’ own erection nudges against Martin’s hip and he reaches down to grip Martin’s skinny hip and hold him still, aligning them so that their cocks are pressed against each other through the thin cotton.

‘ _Oh_ ,’ Martin says, his cheeks brightly flushed and his hands gathering fistfuls of Douglas’ T-shirt. ‘Oh. That’s… that’s…’

He breaks off to gasp when Douglas rolls his hips, and Douglas kisses him again. He slides a hand up to Martin’s waist, just slipping his fingertips under the hem of his T-shirt to ghost along heated skin, and pulls away just enough to murmur, ‘Is this okay?’

Martin nods and Douglas doesn’t wait for any more encouragement. He might have problems reading Martin in other areas but _this_ is something he prides himself that he’s rather good at. He pushes his hand up Martin’s T-shirt, up along the ripple of ribs and across his chest until he captures his nipple between two fingertips. Martin whimpers into his mouth as Douglas squeezes gently, and his hands fumble and grip Douglas’ shoulders. Douglas plays with it lazily, not slowing on the steady, rhythmic thrusts of his hips against Martin’s, until Martin is moaning softly against his mouth and his hands have found their way under Douglas’ T-shirt to claw at his back. Martin is squirming against Douglas, seemingly too turned on to coordinate himself properly because he tries to match Douglas’ thrusts before writhing gracelessly and throwing off their rhythm. After the third time it happens, Douglas pulls back and grips the hem of Martin’s T-shirt. He tugs it upwards slightly.

‘I think you should get rid of this,’ he says, voice rough with arousal.

Martin, for once, doesn’t argue or hesitate, he only says, ‘You too,’ and sits up to fumble his T-shirt nervously up and off. Douglas tugs his own off and drops it over the side the bed, and when he turns back then Martin is staring at him, looking gratifyingly turned on.

Douglas is moderately proud of his appearance. He’s not as lean or muscular as he used to be, but he’s still reasonably fit and age and experience have taught him how to show his bed partners a good time. So he leans back towards Martin, kissing him and tipping him over onto his back. Martin goes easily enough, and his legs spread readily when Douglas pushes a knee between his thighs. He slides it higher, until Martin’s erection is pressing against his thigh and Douglas can rock back and forth over it.

‘ _God_ ,’ Martin groans. His hairline is starting to be dark with sweat and Douglas leans down to kiss his throat, making his chin lift as he bares it to Douglas. Douglas sucks and kisses at his pulse point, before bracing himself on one elbow and leaning down to cover one of Martin’s nipples with his mouth. The effect is electric. Martin jerks beneath him, and Douglas has to lean some of his weight on him to keep him on the bed. He suckles gently at it, until the flesh tightens beneath his lips and Martin’s hips have started to curl upwards off the mattress, shamelessly rubbing himself against Douglas’ leg.

‘You’re so sensitive,’ Douglas says at last, lifting his head to prop it up on one hand and take in the sight of Martin looking utterly wrecked. ‘I love that you respond to even the smallest touch.’

Martin is flighty, shivering faintly, and Douglas feels almost as though his weight is the only thing anchoring Martin to the bed. His other hand reaches down to find the outline of Martin’s erection in his underwear, and Martin freezes. Douglas just rests his hand heavily on it, not moving while Martin pants and his hips make tiny thrusts up against it. There’s a sizeable damp spot already on the fabric, and Douglas watches Martin’s face as he murmurs, ‘You’re wet already.’

‘Yes,’ Martin groans, his eyes shut tight as though he can’t bear to look.

‘You’re _so_ wet,’ Douglas says, feeling Martin’s cock pulse against his palm and the fabric get a tiny bit damper. ‘Do you always do this?’

Martin only nods, his face scarlet. But he shows no signs of losing his erection and so Douglas rubs the heel of his hand along it and says, half to himself, ‘I bet you barely need to use anything when you touch yourself. Just a bit of spit would do it.’

Martin bites down on his lower lip, and when Douglas’ thumb finds the head of his cock and pushes the wet fabric back and forth across it then he actually whimpers.

‘God, you look gorgeous like this,’ Douglas says. He reaches further down and cups Martin’s balls, tugs at them gently. ‘I can’t decide whether I want to suck you or use my hand so I can watch you.’

The next instant the decision is taken out of his hands. He’s barely finished speaking when Martin gasps ‘ _Douglas_ ,’ frantic and squirming, and reaches down to grab Douglas’ wrist and tug feebly. Douglas firms his muscles and stays right where he is, and the next moment Martin’s back arches and his thighs spread wider. His cock gets impossibly harder under Douglas’ palm before starting to jerk, and there’s a sudden spread of heat and wetness against his palm as Martin comes, soaking his boxers and hissing ‘Shit, shit, fuck,’ through gritted teeth. Douglas watches him as Martin shudders through his pleasure, greedy for the sight and also just a touch surprised. He’d have thought that Martin was a bit too old to come without some more direct stimulation, but he rubs his palm along the rigid length of Martin’s cock as it pulses and waits for Martin to stop shaking.

‘Oh God,’ Martin says, as soon as he opens his eyes. He looks miserable, almost humiliated, and Douglas idly strokes his cock once more, causing another weak twitch, a last abbreviated pulse. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I…’

Douglas kisses him to stem the tide of apologies he can see in the offing, his hand still curved idly over Martin’s softening cock.

‘I can’t believe I made you come just from that,’ he says, and Martin twists his face away.

‘Please don’t,’ he says, sounding deeply embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, I just–’

‘ _Martin_ ,’ Douglas interrupts him, but before he can continue he’s interrupted in turn by the shrill and clatter of his mobile on the bedside table.

He rolls away to grab it with a growl of frustration – by God, this had better be good, whoever’s calling – and when he sees Carolyn’s name on the display then he seriously considers diverting her to voicemail. But she wouldn’t be calling at this hour just to exchange pleasantries and so he grits his teeth, throws a warning look at Martin (whose face shows clearly that he’s thinking of sidling out of bed), and answers.

‘Carolyn.’

‘Douglas. Did I wake you?’

Martin is speaking in a quick, embarrassed mutter – something about ‘Sorry,’ and ‘I’ll just be going,’ as he inches towards the side of the bed – but when Douglas switches Carolyn onto speakerphone he freezes and shuts up.

‘No,’ Douglas answers. The pleasant tension of arousal that had been building in him evaporate like smoke; an early morning call from one’s boss tends to have that effect, Douglas finds.

‘But I suspect that you wouldn’t have had any qualms if you _had_. Out with it. What’s up?’

‘I know that you thought you had a day off,’ she begins, and Douglas interrupts.

‘No, sorry, there’s no “thought” about it. I _am_ having a day off. I’m having it right now.’

He glances at Martin, whose face and throat are still appealingly flushed, but who looks as though he’s almost stopped breathing in his nervousness about the threat of discovery.

‘Douglas.’ Carolyn sounds serious, refusing to engage in their usual banter. ‘I know and I’m sorry, I truly am. But something’s come up and we can’t afford _not_ to take this job.’

Douglas groans. ‘Carolyn…’

‘ _Please_ ,’ she says; the novelty of it, as well as the urgency in her tone, halts the automatic refusal that’s on the tip of his tongue.

‘How big?’ he asks instead.

‘Big enough that I’m calling you at half-past eight in the morning on the day off that’s already had to be rescheduled once to beg you to do this,’ she says, and Douglas can _hear_ her gritted teeth.

He stretches lazily, bumping his foot against Martin’s in an attempt to make him look slightly less like a rabbit in the headlights.

‘Well, I don’t know that I’d call this _begging_ , really–’

‘Douglas.’ She sounds tired, and harassed, and Douglas gives in. For all that they’re often at loggerheads, Carolyn isn’t a bad sort.

‘Alright,’ he says.

‘Good.’ Carolyn is all business. ‘Pack a bad, it’s an overnight stay. And–’

‘Wait a moment,’ Douglas says. He flings an arm swiftly over Martin’s waist, who has renewed his efforts to slide silently out of bed at Douglas’ agreement. He tightens his arm, and hangs on when Martin squirms until he subsides and frowns at Douglas. ‘You’ve not heard my conditions yet.’

‘Douglas, we don’t have time for this,’ Carolyn says sharply.

‘Indeed we don’t,’ Douglas agrees, ‘so I’ll make this quick. I want a bonus for this.’

He names a figure, and Carolyn takes a breath.

‘You… are you telling me you’ll only do this if I bribe you?’ she asks.

‘Pretty much,’ Douglas agrees. ‘But then again, you’re the one asking us to fly passengers before we’ve had the requisite amount of downtime, so I’m not entirely sure you have a leg to stand on.’

Carolyn swears but says curtly, ‘Fine.’

Martin twitches at this and Douglas’ arm, which had relaxed, constricts around him again.

‘And if I get one, Martin gets the same,’ Douglas adds, and Martin’s eyes widen in surprise.

‘No,’ Carolyn says, so immediately that Douglas knows she’s negotiating.

‘Yes,’ he insists.

‘What does it matter to you?’ she asks, sounding annoyed.

‘Because I just _know_ that this will come out at some point, since we seem to be a team incapable of keeping secrets from each other, and the flight deck is an awfully small space to share with someone who’s sulking pointedly in your direction.’

‘It’s never bothered you before,’ Carolyn mutters, but Douglas knows that she likes Martin, probably more than she likes him, and so he just says, ‘It’s both of us, or neither,’ and waits until she mutters, ‘Oh, _fine_.’

Martin’s eyes widen still further and he looks at Douglas with a complicated expression in which Douglas reads doubt and confusion, among other things. He ought to be insulted at Martin’s apparent lack of faith in him, but instead he finds he can only summon a quiet pity for Martin’s low expectations of his lovers. Douglas wonders if anyone has ever really truly, taken his side before, and he rubs his hand along Martin’s warm, bare waist, loving the feel of the muscles shifting beneath his skin. It’s delicious; Douglas’ hand slides lower almost unbidden to curve protectively over the sharp point of Martin’s hipbone, and Martin’s eyes grow heavy-lidded, his lips parting. He looks so kissable that Douglas misses Carolyn’s next remark and has to ask her to repeat it.

‘I said I’ll pick you up in half an hour,’ she says impatiently, and Martin’s waiting-to-be-kissed look is replaced by panic. He struggles out of bed despite Douglas’ hold and Douglas curses, says ‘Hang on,’ to Carolyn and switches her off speakerphone. He covers the microphone with one hand.

‘Wait,’ he says to Martin, who’s hunting for his jeans, trying to put as much command into his voice as possible.

To Carolyn he says, ‘Have you called Martin yet?’

‘No,’ she says, sounding suspicious. ‘Who were you talking to?’

‘The cat,’ Douglas says easily, no hesitation or awkwardness. ‘Look, _I’ll_ call Martin and tell him. I’ll pick him up on my way and meet you at the airfield.’

‘Fine,’ says Carolyn says, always quick to save on petrol, and to distract her from the fact that he and Martin are arriving together (and that he doesn’t, in fact, own a cat), he adds pointedly, ‘The sooner you let me go, the sooner I can be there.’

‘Yes, yes, alright,’ she says. ‘I want you on your best behaviour, Douglas.’

‘Scouts’ honour,’ he replies, and she only snorts before ringing off.

Douglas rolls onto his back and rubs at his face. Apparently his day off won’t be happening after all, although the bonus is a nice perk. But when he looks over at Martin to commiserate he finds him tugging his jeans up over his hips, awkwardly trying to tuck his half-hard cock into his open fly and nose wrinkling in discomfort at the sticky mess in his underwear. He’s already pulled his T-shirt back on, and Douglas gets only the barest tantalising glimpse of his stomach muscles shifting where the T-shirt is rucked up in front.

‘Wait,’ Douglas says.

He’s made some speedy exits in his time but never one that was _this_ quick. Not to mention the fact that Martin doesn’t satisfyingly well-shagged, he just looks acutely uncomfortable. Douglas rolls out of bed, and walks over to Martin.

‘Sorry,’ Martin says fretfully, glancing at Douglas and then looking away. ‘I know that wasn’t very good. You’re probably used to–’

‘Martin,’ Douglas interrupts. He grips Martin’s shoulders, muscle and bone hard under soft cotton. ‘Just… just slow down for a moment, alright?’

‘I can’t,’ Martin says, stress written on his face. ‘I’ve got to get back, and pack, and–’

‘I’ll take you,’ Douglas says. ‘After a shower, and coffee, and breakfast.’

‘We don’t have time for–’

‘Oh yes we do,’ Douglas says firmly. ‘Carolyn has just rousted me out of bed on my day off, where I was dallying with a gorgeous young man, in order to play taxi to some rich playboy. _Believe_ me, there is time for coffee.’

Martin is still clutching the front of his jeans, although he’s given up on trying to fasten them, and he ducks his head and bites his lip. He looks embarrassed, Douglas realises, and he tightens his grip on Martin’s shoulders and presses a quick, firm kiss to his mouth.

‘Martin,’ he says. ‘Calm. Down.’

‘Sorry,’ Martin murmurs, ‘sorry. What must you think of me. You didn’t even…’

He looks down to where Douglas is still wearing his boxers, clean and unsoiled, and Douglas says ‘It’s fine,’ surprised to find that, actually, it really is. ‘You can make it up to me next time, if it bothers you so much.’

Martin looks at him. ‘Next time?’

‘Yes,’ Douglas says firmly, before uncharacteristic self-doubt rears its head. ‘If you want to. I mean, if not then–’

‘No, no, I do,’ Martin exclaims, with flattering speed. ‘That… yes, God, _definitely_ , I just–’

‘Good,’ Douglas says, before Martin can stumble any more. He kisses him once more, on the cheek this time, and steps away. Despite Douglas being half-naked, Martin still hasn’t touched him but that’s okay, Douglas recognises morning-after shyness when he sees it.

‘Let me find you a towel.’

***

Coffee is charmingly domestic, with Martin sat at the table in Douglas’ kitchen and ducking his head every time their gazes cross. He follows Douglas out to his car when they’re both showered and fed, and only hesitates slightly when he sees his van pulled up on the kerb.

‘Save your petrol,’ Douglas says, unlocking his car. ‘There’s no point in your driving all the way back to your place only for me to follow you. You can pick it up tomorrow.’

And for once, Martin follows Douglas’ suggestion without a murmur of an argument.

‘I could get used to this,’ Douglas muses, leaning an arm on Martin’s seat and looking over his shoulder as he backs the car out of the driveway. At Martin’s querying look he clarifies, ‘You following my orders without argument.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ Martin says, but he’s trying not to grin.

Martin, endearingly, has no poker face whatsoever. From the moment they arrive at the airfield, Douglas knows that it’s obvious to anyone with half a brain what’s happened between them. Fortunately they’re surrounded by Carolyn (who’s entirely focussed on the much-needed boost to their finances that this trip is giving them), the client (who’s flying out to Nice to propose to his girlfriend and is a bundle of nerves), and Arthur (who’s never been known for his observational skills). As soon as they arrive then Carolyn thrusts the flight plan into Martin’s hands and shoos them into the flight deck. Fortunately the prospect of flying is enough to engage Martin’s attention – Douglas would feel snubbed if he wasn’t amused by the almost visible gear change – and he slides effortlessly into professional mode that lasts all the way to Nice.

Their hotel in Nice is one of the budget accommodation chains that have sprung up, and hence Carolyn has magnanimously treated them to a room each. Douglas smiles and thanks her, even as he curses the fact that she picks _now_ of all times to be generous, when sharing a room with Martin would be no hardship at all.

They go out for dinner, and Douglas watches Martin eat his tarragon chicken while studiously avoiding Douglas’ gaze. He isn’t sure what’s more obvious: the way Martin determinedly looks everywhere but at Douglas, or the moments when he catches Douglas’ eye and flushes before looking away. Douglas resigns himself to the fact that they likely only have a limited amount of time before Carolyn finds out. Currently she’s too delighted with the money they’ve made to pay much attention, but she’s not an idiot and Douglas thinks that if this is going to be a long-term thing – as he sincerely hopes it will – then they ought to tell her before she works it out. He’ll have to speak to Martin about the best moment to do it.

Back at the hotel after dinner, Douglas yawns – with only a _little_ bit of exaggeration, since it was a late night last night and an early start today – and makes for his room, ignoring the weight of Martin’s gaze on his back. The four of them have been given rooms in a little cluster, Carolyn’s and Arthur’s on the opposite side of the corridor to his and Martin’s, and Douglas stands just on the other side of the closed door and listens impatiently while they all say their goodnights. It seems to take an improbably long time to say goodnight and establish that yes, they’ll all see each other at breakfast and Douglas grits his teeth, but at last the corridor goes quiet.

Douglas fishes out his book and tries to read for a bit; he imagines that Carolyn is the sort who not only potters for a bit before she goes to bed but who also has hearing like a bat. But eventually he decides that she’s had enough time and he closes his book and gets up. He brushes his teeth, pauses to collect a couple of items from his overnight bag and then, softly as a cat, he closes the door of his room behind him and brushes his knuckles against Martin’s in a barely-audible tap.

Martin opens the door straight away, looking delightfully flustered and dishevelled, and only nods and waves him inside when Douglas holds a finger to his lips, and jerks his head at Carolyn’s door. After Martin has shut the door (gently, so gently) behind him, Douglas steps close to him and says softly, ‘Hello.’

‘Hi,’ Martin says breathlessly, cheeks pink. He’s still wearing his shirt and trousers, although he’s stripped down to bare feet, and the state of his hair tells Douglas that he’s been running his hands through it, as he does when distracted or stressed. ‘I wondered if you were still awake. I was thinking about… about coming to see you.’

Amazingly Martin still looks unsure, even after Douglas has demonstrated how keen he is, and Douglas rests a hand lightly on Martin’s waist as he murmurs, ‘I just realised that I wasn’t able to give you a goodnight kiss, and so I thought I’d come and rectify that. If you’ve no objection?’

Martin’s hands have caught fistfuls of Douglas’ shirt and at this he shakes his head.

‘No,’ he says. ‘No, that’s fine, I–’

Douglas dips his head and cuts him off with a kiss, sliding the hand on Martin’s waist around to the small of his back to push them closer together. Martin melts against him easily, opening his mouth for Douglas’ tongue and kissing him like he’s been starving for it, and Douglas wraps his arms tightly around Martin’s waist and pulls their bodies together hard, tightly enough that he can feel Martin getting hard against his hip. He shifts his weight and nudges a knee between Martin’s and Martin gives a little choked-off moan and widens his stance slightly.

It’s so delightfully easy to get him all worked up and it turns _Douglas_ on to see – and feel – him getting aroused, but he retrieves his dwindling self-control and lifts his head.

‘Martin,’ he says gently, as Martin opens his eyes and blinks at him, looking just the slightest bit dazed, enough to make Douglas’ ego swell. ‘As delightful as this is, if all you want is a good night kiss then I now consider my promise fulfilled and, in the interests of not torturing myself, I probably ought to leave now.’

He shifts a little, just enough to press his half-formed erection pointedly against Martin’s hip, and Martin catches his lip between his teeth. His hands have migrated around to Douglas’ back, and his palms flatten against Douglas’ spine as he takes a deep breath and blurts, ‘You could stay if you want.’

‘I do want,’ Douglas says, cupping Martin’s nape in a heavy palm to see his eyelashes flutter. ‘But – and _treasure_ this moment, because I’m not known for my self-denial – are you sure this is what _you_ want?’

‘Yes,’ Martin says, his gaze dropping to Douglas’ mouth and leaning in. ‘I do. I really, really–’

The rest of his sentence is lost in their kiss. Out of the corner of his eye Douglas sees the bed in Martin’s room, with a paperback discarded and the bedside lamp on, and grips Martin’s hips to walk him the three steps it takes for Martin’s calves to bump the edge of the mattress.

‘I’ll get the door,’ he says into Martin’s mouth. ‘You turn down the blankets.’

It only takes a moment for Douglas to flick the lock on the door – not that he imagines anyone’s going to disturb them, but better safe than sorry – and turn off the main light, leaving only the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Douglas turns back and finds Martin has pulled back the blankets on the bed and placed his book on the bedside table – bookmark neatly in place – and is sitting on the edge of the mattress, looking perfectly composed aside from the white-knuckled grip of his fingers twisted round each other in his lap.

Douglas crosses the room to sit beside Martin, and kisses him. In his younger days, when he was idealistic and naïve (albeit briefly), Douglas had thought that first times were supposed to be wonderful, perfect experiences. Now, of course, experience has taught him that they’re no such thing. They’re awkward, and rushed, and uncoordinated, because neither of you know each other’s body or preferences, but it’s important to get them out of the way so that you can move onto second and third times, and start to improve.

Douglas would be just as happy to call the impromptu grope that morning their first time, despite the fact that he didn’t get off, but it’s painfully obvious to see that Martin considers this their first time, and that he’s putting himself under pressure to make sure it all goes well.

‘Relax,’ Douglas says, cupping Martin’s face and drawing him in close. ‘Let’s just kiss for a bit, and see where it goes.’

Where it goes, in a shorter time than Douglas expected, is to the pair of them stretched out on the bed with their legs entwined, with their shirts unbuttoned all the way down their fronts and Douglas’ hands roaming greedily over Martin’s bare chest and stomach. Martin’s hands are on Douglas’ back, under his shirt; Douglas keeps trying to ease Martin back to get a good look at him and Martin seems insistent on pressing closer. On a hunch, Douglas murmurs, ‘Bit chilly in here,’ and flips the blanket up to cover them both. Martin relaxes almost instantly, giving Douglas’ hands more room to wander over his exposed chest, and Douglas sighs at his self-consciousness.

‘I don’t think there’s a spare ounce of fat on you, is there?’ he says, splaying his fingers against Martin’s ribs and letting the pads of his thumbs rub roughly back and forth over Martin’s nipple, making his breath catch.

‘I’m skinny,’ Martin says. ‘Not like–’ and Douglas has to shut him up with a kiss. During all this he’s been acutely conscious of the ridge of Martin’s cock in his trousers and now Douglas reaches down to run his knuckles gently along it. Martin’s inhale stutters slightly and Douglas turns his hand over to cup his palm over the length of it. He kisses Martin as he lets his hand rest there; not stroking but just curving intimately over the thick, heavy weight of it, until Martin is panting against his mouth and his hips are shifting and rocking minutely against Douglas’ hand.

When Douglas finally lets his hand slide roughly back and forth against it, Martin nuzzles blindly into Douglas’ neck with a little moan, his fingers digging into Douglas’ back, and Douglas lets go to tug at the open sides of Martin’s shirt and murmur, ‘Can I get you out of this?’

‘Yes,’ Martin gasps, pulling back. He’s flushed and breathing hard, his pupils dilated, and he sits up to shrug his shirt off. Douglas does likewise, but gets only a brief glimpse of Martin bare-chested before Martin leans over and snaps the bedside light off.

‘What…’ Douglas begins, momentarily blind while his eyes adjust to the dim light of the streetlights through the curtains. There’s a flurry of rustling on the other side of the bed, and Douglas snaps the light back on to see Martin dropping his bundled trousers and socks over the side of the bed, having clearly decided to get it over with all at once. The sheets are still tugged up around Martin’s waist, but even so he flinches a little under Douglas’ gaze.

‘Can you…’ he mutters, looking at the light, ‘I’d rather not leave it on. Um…’

Douglas arches an eyebrow, certain that this will be enough to nudge an explanation out of Martin, but when it doesn’t he adds, ‘Why?’

‘I…’ Martin is looking at the far side of the room and studiously avoiding Douglas’ gaze. ‘I’ve been told that I look silly. When I’m… you know.’

‘Oh _Martin_ ,’ Douglas begins, because everyone pulls slightly ridiculous faces during sex, but Martin blurts ‘ _Please_ ,’ looking more embarrassed with each passing second, and Douglas sighs.

‘Alright,’ he says. Nothing is a bigger mood-killer than embarrassment, so he flicks the light off, quickly gets rid of his own trousers, and slides closer to kiss Martin again.

Martin is hesitant at first but soon responds, and Douglas reaches around and down to grab a handful of that luscious arse he’s been watching for weeks now. Martin has left his underwear on, but when Douglas hooks his fingers into the waistband and tugs them then Martin rolls onto his back and lifts his hips to work them down and off.

Having Martin next to him – on his back with hips curled upwards and thighs splayed – prompts all sort of filthy images in Douglas’ mind, and before Martin can move he gets on top of him, bracing his forearms on the bed to take his weight and letting gravity push his groin down hard into Martin’s. Martin’s cock is hard against his own through his underwear, and Martin whimpers a little as Douglas kisses him, hands settling firmly on Douglas’ shoulder blades.

Douglas takes his time kissing Martin while rocking their hips together. He kisses Martin’s top lip, and his lower one, and alternates shallows, teasing kisses with deeper ones that makes Martin groan into his mouth as his thighs come up to grip Douglas’ hips.

At last Martin breaks away.

‘You,’ he pants, fumbling at the waistband of Douglas’ underwear. ‘Take them off, _please_ , just–’

‘With pleasure,’ Douglas practically growls into Martin’s mouth, and together they fumble his boxers down around his knees until he can work them the rest of the way down his legs and kick them off. He lowers his weight onto Martin again and God, this is better. Skin against skin, the solid line of Martin’s cock against his own, and he indulges himself for a few minutes before leaning down to nuzzle blindly and lick across one of Martin’s nipples.

Martin’s fingers instantly sink into his hair, curling and scratching at his scalp slightly as he arches up against Douglas’ mouth, and Douglas; licks and suckles and bites gently at it until Martin’s nipples are tight under his lips and fingers and Martin is audibly gasping for breath.

Douglas comes up to press a kiss to the underside of Martin’s jaw, and takes his weight on one arm so that he can reach down and wrap his fingers around Martin’s cock. It’s the first time he’s touched it without underwear between them and he lets it slide through his fingers, learning the shape and weight of it while Martin shudders beneath him and pants into his ear. Martin is surprisingly well-endowed for someone otherwise so sleek and fine-boned. Long and thick; a deliciously solid fistful, and the head is already wet and slippery.

‘I want to taste you,’ Douglas says in his ear. ‘I’ll bet you taste just as gorgeous as you feel.’

Martin outright _whimpers_ at this, his fingers digging into Douglas’ spine, and Douglas slides down Martin’s body, taking care to let his stomach and chest drag heavily over Martin’s cock. He takes the sheets and blankets with him as he goes, until Martin is bared all the way down to his shins.

There’s just enough light from the streetlights outside that leaks through the thin curtains to make out the topography of Martin’s body. The jut of a hipbone here, the ripple of ribs there, and Douglas can dimly see Martin getting up onto his elbows and reaching down the bed for the covers.

‘No,’ Douglas says, pulling them down still farther out of his reach. ‘It’s dark enough that I can barely see you, and there’s something decadent about feeling only air on your skin while you’re getting sucked off.’

Martin makes another noise at this and Douglas, testing his new suspicion that Martin finds it arousing to hear Douglas talking about what they’re doing, adds ‘Besides, if I’ve got my face buried between your thighs then I won’t be able to see anything, so feel free to look however you want.’

And while Martin groans softly, Douglas lowers his head and takes Martin’s cock into his mouth. Martin half-sits up at this, his thighs jerking sharply, and as Douglas lets it sink into his mouth and pulls back, sucking as he does so, he dimly sees Martin’s hands grab fistfuls of the sheet.

‘Oh God,’ Martin groans, sounding almost beside himself. ‘Oh _God._ I… that’s…’

Douglas wraps a hand around the base and lets Martin push back into his mouth again. Martin is leaking copiously already and, instead of swallowing it, Douglas lets it run out of his mouth and down to where his hand grips Martin’s shaft, turning it into a tight, sloppy slide of hand and mouth.

‘Oh Christ,’ Martin gasps above him, his legs drawing up and heels digging hard into the mattress. ‘I’m… oh fuck, wait, I need a minute.’

Douglas pauses obligingly, remembering how easily he made Martin come that morning. He slides his mouth off while Martin groans and pants, and sticks two fingers in his mouth, slicking them well with spit before nudging gently between Martin’s buttocks. The ease with which Martin wrapped his legs around Douglas’ waist has planted thoughts in Douglas’ mind of what Martin might like but be too shy to ask for, and he rumbles, ‘Is this okay?’

He slides his fingertips up to press gently against Martin’s hole and Martin groans ‘Yes. That’s fine but I… I need a moment.’

Douglas waits patiently, nuzzling hard kisses into Martin’s inner thighs where they’re trembling on either side of his head. It’s possible to feel the pulse in the femoral artery, he knows, and when he finds it with his mouth then Martin’s is hammering.

‘Alright,’ Martin says at last. ‘Alright, you can–’

He doesn’t get any farther before Douglas has him again, sucking on his cockhead before pulling him deeper into his mouth, and Martin’s words are lost in a frantic gasp.

Martin lasts an even shorter duration this time: Douglas has barely managed a dozen strokes of hand and mouth – with the fingertips of his other hand pushing rhythmically at Martin’s hole – before Martin grabs his shoulder.

‘Wait,’ he says, voice breaking. ‘I’m close… just let me…’

Obediently, Douglas lets go, but he tightens his grip around the base of Martin’s cock where it’s straining up into his hand.

‘You _are_ allowed to come, you know,’ Douglas says, in the deepest, most languid voice he can muster. ‘You having an orgasm is rather the _point_ here.’

‘I’m… oh, not yet,’ Martin groans. His hand leaves Douglas’ shoulder and he grabs at his own thigh; Douglas can make out his fingers digging in and guesses that Martin is trying to use pain to ground himself. ‘I can’t, not yet, I have to… to…’

His voice trails off. Douglas knows what he’s driving at: they’ve not been at this very long and Martin obviously wants to show a little more stamina.

But damn it, Douglas loves that he can make Martin come so easily. He’s only done it once before, but already he finds it devastatingly attractive the way Martin gets so worked up at the slightest touch, and so Douglas twists his hand where he’s gripping the base of Martin’s cock even as he says gently ‘Steady now. Deep breaths.’

Martin starts dragging in deep lungfuls of air, and Douglas lowers his head to press his open mouth to the base of Martin’s cock, where his balls are drawn up tight against his body and where the concentrated smell of Martin’s skin almost makes Douglas’ mouth water. Martin squirms at this and Douglas can feel his hole start to contract rhythmically against his fingertips. It seems as though Martin’s orgasm is happening now, whether he wants it to or not, and Douglas sucks one of Martin’s balls into his mouth and starts to work his cock hard and fast until it swells slightly in his grip before starting to spurt over his fingers.

Other than a single despairing sob, Martin is completely silent as he comes, even when Douglas pushes a finger inside him to find his prostate as he clenches tightly around it. His fists bunch so tightly in the sheets that Douglas wonders vaguely whether he’s going to yank them straight off the bed, and he pushes helplessly up into Douglas’ stroking hand while Douglas works him through it.

When Douglas has coaxed a last weak spurt from Martin, and Martin has whimpered and reached down to grab at his wrist, Douglas eases his finger out of Martin and slides up the bed to kiss him, trailing his fingertips through the mess on Martin’s lean stomach.

‘Oh hell.’ Martin sounds equal parts dazed and mortified. ‘Hell. I… I didn’t mean to…’

‘Shush,’ Douglas says, stopping Martin’s breathless self-criticism with kisses. ‘Hush, you gorgeous boy. What on earth do you think you did wrong?’

‘I… I…’

Douglas kisses him again and Martin melts into him, kissing and kissing until Martin is clinging to him and whispering ‘Let me do that for you… I want to make you feel like that.’

Douglas rolls onto his back, pulling Martin’s narrow hips between his thighs, and groans ‘Absolutely. But–’ as Martin makes a pleased noise and moves down his body, ‘–on one condition.’

He reaches over to flick the bedside light on. ‘Let me watch you.’

Martin, blinking in the sudden flood of light, looks positively edible: his face is flushed and his lips kiss-bitten, his hair pointing in all directions, and seeing him sprawled between Douglas’ splayed thighs is enough to make Douglas’ cock twitch and get harder, even with the sheet that’s tugged up to Martin’s waist.

‘Really?’ he asks, uncertain, and Douglas reaches down to card his fingers through Martin’s wild hair.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘You look quite deliciously debauched right now, and I think I’d like to admire my handiwork for a bit.’

As he had known he would, Martin flushes and ducks his head at this, but he doesn’t protest again. Instead he lowers his head to nuzzle along the side of Douglas’ cock and Douglas gentles his hand in Martin’s hair, forcing his fingers not to clench as Martin reaches the head and licks at it. Martin is really unfairly talented at this; Douglas thinks that his old boyfriends clearly gave him plenty of opportunity to practise, and then immediately wishes he hadn’t, and makes himself focus on Martin.

It’s not hard to do.

In contradiction to his own almost indecent haste, Martin obviously knows the value of drawing it out. He mouths sloppy kisses along the side, and laps lazily at the head, and even grips the shaft to rub the head against the wet seam of his closed mouth, until Douglas has to take his hand out of Martin’s hair to stop himself yanking on it involuntarily. He clutches instead at the pillow under his head, knotting his fist in it until his fingers ache, and when Martin finally parts his lips and lets Douglas’ cock push between them and into his mouth Douglas groans, legs twitching further apart. Martin is good at it – just the right amount of suction, and pressure, and when Douglas dares to glance down the length of his body then he sees that Martin’s eyes are closed, his expression a little dreamy as though _he’s_ the one getting off from this.

Douglas gasps for breath, trying to calm himself, and Martin pauses for a moment while he has to swallow. His hand and Douglas’ cock are already slick with spit and precome, but Douglas is so turned on (and Martin looks as though the thickness of Douglas’ cock in his mouth is making him drool slightly) that Martin has to let some slide out of his mouth and down Douglas’ shaft while he swallows the rest. The little hitch of breath and the gulp that Martin gives make Douglas’ balls pull tight against his body, and he reaches down quickly to nudge Martin’s mouth off his cock.

Martin looks up at him. ‘What are you doing?’

His mouth is wet, his lips reddened and swollen and slick with saliva, and Douglas can see his tongue moving behind his teeth.

‘I’m about two seconds from coming,’ Douglas groans, burying his fingers in Martin’s hair while his cock aches in Martin’s grip, ‘and I didn’t want to do it in your mouth.’

He’s not exaggerating: his orgasm is right there, but Martin only blinks up at him and says ‘You can if you want. I don’t mind,’ and lowers his head.

He only gets partway before Douglas’ hands tighten in his hair and halt him. ‘ _Martin._ ’

_You **should** mind,_ he wants to say. _Did none of your exes care about safe sex?_

But he can’t quite summon enough coherence for a safe sex lecture, and so he only loosens a hand and wraps it over Martin’s on his cock, pulling on it once, twice, and oh God, that’s it, he’s there, and he tips his head back and groans through gritted teeth as he comes, snapping his hips up into their joined fist as he pulses.

It’s been a while since he had an orgasm from a touch other than his own, and for a long time he almost can’t breathe through the pleasure of it, and just keeps stroking himself until the sharp pleasure of it gives way to a bone-deep contentment.

‘Oh God,’ he groans, awash with satisfaction. He loosens the grip that he realises, rather belatedly, he has on Martin’s hair, and winds his fingers through it gently. He opens his eyes and blinks up at the ceiling for a moment in lazy contentment before glancing down. Martin is leaning his head into Douglas’ caresses, his eyes half-closed like a cat’s and contentment all but radiating off him.

‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Martin murmurs. ‘I’d have let you do it.’

‘I know you would,’ Douglas says, too well-shagged to put any real ire behind it, ‘but please don’t tell me we need to have a talk about safe sex because really, you’re just far too old for that.’

‘No,’ Martin says, looking away. ‘I just thought… well, my other boyfriends never seemed to… they didn’t…’

He stumbles over the end and falls silent, and Douglas doesn’t know whether to laugh or cover his face in despair. Martin’s brain-mouth filter – never a reliable mechanism – seems to have gone offline entirely, if he’s talking about ex-partners while naked and sweaty with his current one, and not to mention the fact that Douglas is really far too old to be anyone’s _boyfriend_. He’s not going to let himself think about the fact that Martin’s previous partners apparently didn’t give a toss about his sexual health, because if his thoughts linger there then he’s not quite sure what he’ll do or say.

And so aloud he only says ‘Well. That’s the perils of sleeping with a former medical student who was around at the height of the AIDS awareness campaigning, I’m afraid. And if that’s the way you want to do things then I’m certainly on board with it, but you’re going to have to get yourself checked out at a clinic. I’ll come with you, if you like; I gave myself an MOT after Helena’s little admission, just to make sure I had nothing else to blame her teacher for, but I’m happy to come along and hold your hand, if needed.’

‘Right,’ Martin says, looking a bit dazed.

‘I’d also,’ Douglas says, rubbing his thumb along Martin’s eyebrow, ‘appreciate forewarning if you’re planning on also doing this with anyone else in the same time period.’

It takes Martin a moment to parse this, but when he does then he looks simultaneously shocked and indignant.

‘ _What?_ Do you think that I… God, I wouldn’t, _honestly_ , I can’t imagine–’

‘I didn’t think you would,’ Douglas says, Martin’s indignation making something warm uncoil inside his chest. ‘But it’s always best to have these things clear upfront, I’ve found.’

He tugs at Martin a little. ‘Now come up here and kiss me.’

Martin does so eagerly (it doesn’t escape Douglas’ notice that he’s carefully to bring the sheet up with him) and props himself up on elbows and knees out of what Douglas is sure is a misguided anxiety that he’s too heavy to lie on Douglas directly. Douglas snorts into their kiss and knocks Martin’s elbows out from under him, pulling him down and rolling them so that they’re lying on their sides with limbs comfortably entangled.

Douglas kisses Martin thoroughly, until he becomes aware that Martin’s cock is firming against his hip. He breaks their kiss and lifts the sheet up to look down. Martin is hard again, his foreskin pulled most of the way back from the head, and his hips rolling and pushing a little restlessly against Douglas, but he tenses when he sees Douglas looking and tries to pull the sheet back down to cover himself.

‘Goodness,’ Douglas says, and Martin flinches against him.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to… you can just ignore it, it’ll go away.’

Douglas gives in to Martin’s tugging and lets the sheet fall. He raises his eyes to Martin’s face and sees him biting his lip and looking flustered, and he can’t resist a predatory grin.

‘Oh dear,’ he purrs, dipping his head and stealing kisses from Martin as he speaks. ‘Your other partners haven’t been looking after you at all, have they?’

‘I…’ Martin stutters, licking his lips as a flush creeps up his throat. ‘They…’

Douglas reaches down to curl his fingers around Martin’s cock and gives it a little squeeze, making Martin gasp.

‘Why on earth would I want to ignore this?’ he asks, speaking so close to Martin’s mouth that their lips brush. ‘Can you come again?’

Martin nods, obviously not trusting his voice, and Douglas growls, ‘Perfect,’ as he strokes him a couple of times, just working the skin over the hardness underneath it. Martin whimpers into his mouth, his hips jerking, and Douglas grips his thigh and encourages him to lift it and drape it over both of Douglas’.

Martin does so, and wraps his arm around Douglas to lean close and mouth clumsy kisses against his throat. Douglas tugs lazily on Martin’s cock, letting go for a moment to slide his hand through the come that’s smeared between them and using it to slick Martin’s cock before setting up a steady rhythm.

‘Oh,’ Martin gasps against Douglas’ throat. His hips pick up the rhythm, and he fucks the tight circle of Douglas’ fingers while his hands skitter restlessly over Douglas’ back and chest. ‘Oh… oh God…’

Douglas tries to tilt Martin’s face up for a kiss but Martin clings to him, burrowing harder against Douglas and resisting.

‘Martin,’ Douglas says at last, into the mop of curls. ‘Come here. Let me kiss you.’

Martin lifts his face for a kiss, and Douglas dips his head to press kisses against Martin’s mouth, the gorgeous slack curve of his lower lip and each corner. He grips Martin’s chin when he draws back, not letting him turn away or hide, and just looks at him for a long moment. Martin’s face is drawn tight, almost as though he’s in pain, but when Douglas lets his fingers twist lazily over the head of Martin’s cock, there’s a tiny pulse of precome against them and Martin bites down hard on his lower lip.

‘No,’ Douglas murmurs, and stretches his thumb up from Martin’s chin to pull his lower lip free of his teeth. ‘None of that.’

He slides his thumb gently between Martin’s parted lips, and groans when they close around it and Martin sucks at it automatically, tongue flickering against the sensitive pad. Douglas watches for a long moment, keeping his hand moving on Martin’s cock and watching as Martin purses his lips around his thumb like he was doing around Douglas’ cock just minutes before.

But soon Martin’s eyes open and he slides closer to Douglas, letting his thumb slip out of his mouth. At first Douglas thinks that Martin wants a hug and he’s ready to give him one, but Martin is frowning, focussed, and reaching past Douglas towards the nightstand. Puzzled, Douglas looks behind himself to see what Martin is reaching for: Martin is already wet enough for this, thanks to their come and the precome he’s leaking, so he can’t be wanting more lube. But the next instant Douglas’ question is answered as Martin murmurs, ‘The light. Douglas, the light. I can’t reach, can you…?’

_One day,_ Douglas thinks, _I’m going to fuck you in broad daylight, and try to get you over this._

But for now he only says ‘Alright,’ soothingly and reaches over behind himself to snap the bedside light off. The room is plunged into darkness again; Douglas loses sight of Martin’s face, but he soon finds out that this has the happy side-effect of making him more vocal. Or perhaps it’s just that he gets noisier as he gets closer to coming; Douglas doesn’t know which, but Martin leans heavily against Douglas, pressing his forehead to Douglas’ chest, and starts whimpering with Douglas’ tight, firm strokes on his cock. His leg tightens around Douglas’ hips, until his heel digs urgently into the back of Douglas’ thigh, and Douglas tangles his free hand in Martin’s hair and coaxes his head back so that he can lean down and eat Martin’s noises straight out of his mouth.

He keeps going until Martin’s vague pleasure noises resolve themselves into frantic gasps of ‘Yes, there… oh God, that’s it, I’m almost… I’m…’ at which point Douglas stops dead and takes his hand away.

Martin gives a little cry of frustration into his mouth.

‘Douglas! I was almost there.’

‘I know,’ Douglas murmurs, tracing patterns on the inside of Martin’s thighs with wet fingertips and pressing soft, repetitive kisses to the plushness of Martin’s lower lip. ‘But let me try this. I promise you’ll like it.’

He gives Martin a minute or two to calm down, and then he takes him in hand and starts again, a slow, lazy rhythm that gradually gets harder and faster until Martin is clinging to him and his cock feels like steel in Douglas’ hand. This time Douglas keeps going, murmuring in Martin’s mouth ‘Tell me when you’re going to come.’

Martin nods, and pushes into Douglas’ hand until he starts to tense up and groan, ‘Nearly… God, I’m nearly there…’

Quickly, Douglas shifts his grip to squeeze just below the head of Martin’s cock and Martin actually sobs into his chest.

‘ _Please_. God, Douglas, please let me, I need to…’

‘I know,’ Douglas says, thinking that if he were several years younger then he’d probably be ready to go again already, Martin sounds so beautiful like this. He cups Martin’s balls in his hand, feeling how heavy and tight they are. ‘I know. Just relax. Let me do this for you.’

He takes Martin up to the edge twice more, both times backing off when Martin’s noises indicate that he’s about to come, and after both times then Martin is all but mindless with pleasure, grinding his hips against the thigh that Douglas has shoved between both of his and pleading in broken phrases. Douglas kisses his forehead: Martin’s hair is wet with sweat, and his breath is coming in ragged gulps.

‘Alright then,’ Douglas says, taking pity on him. ‘Come on, then. This time.’

He starts stroking again, pausing for a moment to fling the sheet off them both so that the cool air can touch Martin’s hot, damp skin, and so that they can both hear the slick, wet noises of Douglas’ hand on his cock.

‘Just listen to that,’ Douglas murmurs to him. ‘God, that’s gorgeous. You’re so wet.’

Martin only groans at this, his body twisting in Douglas’ embrace as though he can’t quite make sense of the onslaught of feeling, and Douglas tips Martin’s head back to tuck kisses into the vulnerable hollow under his jaw.

‘I want you to come for me,’ he says, just as Martin groans urgently ‘ _Oh God_.’

He sounds almost as though it’s hurting him, and his hands clutch desperately at Douglas.

‘Easy,’ Douglas breathes against Martin’s throat. Reluctantly, he lets go of Martin’s hair to catch hold of one of his hands and tangles their fingers together. ‘Easy now. You’re alright.’

‘Fuck, I’m coming,’ Martin sobs heavily. His leg tightens around Douglas’ hips, his back arching, as his cock thickens and twitches sharply. ‘Oh God, Douglas, I’m coming… I’m _coming_.’

Douglas says nothing, only squeezes Martin’s hand when his grip grinds Douglas’ knuckles together and kisses Martin’s forehead as he shakes through his orgasm. Martin’s cock jerks sharply in his fist and Martin’s noises are just _divine_ ; he only produces a few weak spurts but his shudders carry on for longer, until Douglas has to awkwardly loop his arm around Martin’s neck without letting go of his hand, so that he can hug Martin closer and mutter nonsense in his ear: ‘Yes, that’s it,’ and ‘Let it go,’ and ‘My God, you’re lovely like this.’

Coming for the second time leaves Martin weak and shivery, wrapped around Douglas and clinging to him tightly, and Douglas hugs him close and lets go of his hand so that he can push Martin’s sweat-soaked hair back off his forehead. They can’t stay like this forever, though, and when Martin’s breathing gets slower and deeper and his muscles start to go limp, Douglas nudges him gently.

‘What?’ Martin’s voice is husky; the thought of why sends a shiver of self-satisfaction through Douglas but he only presses a kiss to the top of Martin’s head and says gently, ‘You’re going to have to let me up. Just for a moment.’

Martin groggily untangles himself, and Douglas says, ‘Mind your eyes,’ and hears a rustle of sheets before he snaps the bedside light on. Martin blinks up at him in the soft light, looking heavy-eyed and disoriented, and Douglas can’t resist running an affectionate hand through Martin’s curls as he gets up and goes to the tiny sink behind the partition which is what passes for an ensuite in this sort of place. He wets a washcloth and cleans off his stomach and groin before rinsing it out with warm water and refolding it to take back to the bed.

Martin is sprawled on his back, eyes closed and knees raised to keep the now-raised sheet from touching the mess on his stomach or groin, and Douglas sits on the edge of the bed. He knows very well that more flies are caught with honey than with vinegar and so, rather than reaching straight for the sheet and having to fight Martin for it, he leans down and kisses Martin gently. There’s nothing sexual about it, it’s nothing more than a soft play of lips and breath, and Martin smiles against Douglas’ mouth, one hand coming up to run appreciatively along his side. Now, when Douglas catches hold of a fold of the sheet and starts to draw it down, Martin’s hand only settles on his forearm and grips lightly.

‘It’s fine,’ Douglas murmurs, kissing the corner of Martin’s mouth. ‘Really. I’ve just had my hands and mouth all over you and you’re gorgeous, so I promise you’ve absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about. And unless you let me do this then you’re doing to feel truly disgusting when you wake up.’

Martin doesn’t say anything but his grip on Douglas’ forearm lessens and Douglas draws the sheet down past Martin’s knees. He breaks the kiss to look down as he wipes the washcloth over Martin’s stomach and groin, and pushes it between his thighs. Martin’s cock is lying soft and still slightly flushed against his thigh; even flaccid it’s still on the generous side and Douglas thinks to himself that this is one area where Martin’s notorious bad luck was nowhere in sight. A casual observer would think that Martin was far too skinny and slight to be walking around with something like that in his underwear.

‘Done,’ Douglas says, giving a last gentle wipe along Martin’s cock, just to watch him squirm. He gets up to rinse the cloth out in the sink, and when he comes back from around the partition he finds Martin propped up on one elbow, looking at him. Martin looks staggeringly gorgeous like that – the soft lighting on his pale skin giving him the look of a marble sculpture – and the sheet is still tangled around his shins. There’s a stripe of high colour along his cheekbones and Douglas understands that this show is for him, that Martin is deliberately leaving himself bare for Douglas’ gaze, and Martin licks his lips and asks, with feigned carelessness, ‘Are you… do you want to stay?’

Douglas blinks, not sure if this is a trick question, and at his hesitation Martin shrugs and looks away.

‘Or not,’ he says, not looking at Douglas. ‘’I mean, it’s not a big deal if you don’t, I just–’

‘Martin,’ Douglas interrupts firmly, before Martin talks himself out of a bed partner and (possibly, hopefully) sleepy morning sex tomorrow, ‘I _absolutely_ want to stay.’ He picks up their trousers and shirts and hangs them up in the wardrobe, so that they don’t look as though they’ve spent the night on the floor, and tells Martin gravely, ‘I want to stay so much that, to be frank, you may have to call security to get rid of me.’

‘Alright then.’

Martin grins at him as Douglas comes to bed and slides under the sheets. For all his hesitation he comes willingly when Douglas reaches for him, and wraps himself up in the Douglas’ embrace with a contented sigh. Douglas reaches over to flick off the light and, in the darkness, says quietly, ‘Goodnight.’

Martin is fading fast; a half-coherent murmur is his only answer but that’s fine. Douglas closes his eyes and toys idly with the curls at Martin’s nape until sleep takes him.

***

Douglas is used to the moment’s disorientation upon waking that comes from staying in countless hotel rooms all over the world. Even so, when he wakes the following morning it takes him a moment to remember where he is, and who with.

Martin has turned over at some point during the night, because he’s sleeping with his back against Douglas’ front, curled into the protective curve of Douglas’ body. His head is resting on Douglas’ outflung arm and he’s reached out in his sleep to tangle their fingers together. Douglas blinks foggily, trying to clear his head. The weight of Martin’s head on his arm, and feel of Martin’s narrow fingers lying lax and peaceful between his own, do odd things to Douglas’ heart, and Douglas slides his other arm around Martin’s waist, careful not to wake him. Martin stirs even so, reaching down with his free hand to latch onto Douglas’ forearm, and Douglas grits his teeth and presses his face against the crown of Martin’s head as Martin moves. The curve of Martin’s arse presses against Douglas’ groin and now, as Martin arches and stretches and makes a sleepy little half-moan, his movements make Douglas’ half-formed morning erection push between his buttocks.

It’s just a shallow, teasing slide, and entirely unintentional on Martin’s part, but Douglas feels his body stir, arousal blooming slow but undeniable in his gut. Martin stirs again, stretching against him and making the plush curves of his backside flex and tighten against Douglas’ groin, and Douglas squeezes his eyes shut and forces his fingers not to clamp down around Martin’s, not wanting to wake him. Another time, Douglas promises himself, at a much later date, he’ll reach over to the bedside table for the lubricant and gently – _so_ gently – work two wet fingers into Martin while he’s still half-asleep, fucking them into him so softly and tenderly that Martin will wake to heart-pounding arousal and pending orgasm. It’s a gorgeous mental image, but Douglas doesn’t want to do it now. He can’t; not the morning after their first proper night together, when Martin is soft and sleepy and vulnerable beside him.

Martin’s fingers tighten on Douglas’ as he rubs his face against Douglas’ arm, and then tenses. Awareness has obviously kicked in, and Douglas hugs Martin with the arm around his waist and murmurs, ‘Morning.’

‘Morning,’ Martin says. He twists his head back to look at Douglas, before rolling over completely so they’re chest to chest and Douglas’ hand is splayed against Martin’s lower back.

‘Sleep well?’ Douglas asks, fingers tracing up and down Martin’s spine.

‘Yes,’ Martin says. His face is half-turned into Douglas’ chest, in more or less exactly the same position he was in last night when he’d been tense and begging Douglas to let him come. Douglas buries his free hand in Martin’s hair and thinks that he could get used to having this every morning.

‘I slept wonderfully,’ Martin says. He’s husky with sleep, a good octave lower than his usual speaking voice, and Douglas gently works a knee between Martin’s and slides a thigh between his legs. ‘You wore me out, and I – _oh_.’

Martin breaks off with a little moan as Douglas’ thigh presses against his erection. Douglas nudges it leisurely, and dips his face to kiss Martin’s forehead slowly and unhurriedly. The position has his own erection pushing against Martin’s stomach, and Douglas groans a little through his teeth when Martin slides a hand between their bodies to touch him. Martin’s face tilts upwards and Douglas kisses him, teasing Martin’s lips open until he makes a small noise and the fingers of his other hand – splayed against Douglas’ chest – tighten and dig in. Martin’s cock has leaked a wet spot onto his thigh, and Douglas slides his hand roughly along Martin’s spine as he mutters, ‘I want you to get on top of me.’

‘What?’

In the dim light from the window Douglas sees Martin blinking at him dazedly, and he kisses him and reaches down to grip a handful of that gorgeous arse and pulls a little.

‘Get on top of me,’ Douglas says, drawing away from Martin and rolling onto his back, still gripping Martin’s arse to draw him with him. A little clumsily, Martin does so, sliding a thigh over Douglas’ until he’s straddling Douglas’ legs and their groins are pressed together. Martin takes his weight on his forearms, and Douglas licks his hand and reaches down between them, gathering both of their erections into his grip and sliding his hand along them.

‘Try moving a little,’ he murmurs to Martin, and Martin thrusts once, carefully, and groans at the feeling of Douglas’ cock dragging along the length of his own.

‘You seemed to like it,’ Douglas says, as Martin shivers and tries another push into the circle of Douglas’ fingers, ‘when I did this, last night.’

So saying, he slides his fingers inward from where they’re gripping Martin’s arse, until he has two fingertips pressed gently against his hole. Martin stops moving.

‘Is this alright?’ Douglas asks, massaging his fingertips in tiny circles, and Martin shivers a little.

‘Yes,’ he says, his voice a breathy gasp. ‘Yes, that’s… more, you can do more, if you – _oh_.’

Douglas takes him at his word, and pushes with his fingertips until he feels himself start to slip inside; Martin’s cock pulses in his hand and Martin dips his head quickly to push his face against Douglas’ shoulder as his back arches and his thighs splay a little wider.

‘Hang on a moment,’ Douglas says, taking his hands away and reaching for the bedside table and the lubricant. He drizzles a little into his left hand and uses it to slick the first two fingers of his right hand, feeling Martin shudder against him at the almost obscenely wet noise of it, before reaching back down to push at Martin’s hole with two warm, slick fingers.

‘Right then,’ he says gently, and pushes them inside. Just a little way, not much more than a tease and certainly nowhere near as much as Martin so clearly wants. ‘If you want this, you’re going to have to work for it.’

‘I… I…’ Martin stammers, and Douglas can’t resist teasing him a little more. His sinks his fingers in all the way before hooking them and drawing them back out, careful to drag over the soft rise of Martin’s prostate.

‘ _God_ ,’ Martin whimpers, squirming on top of him. His thighs spread wider in anticipation of a repeat, but Douglas holds still.

‘Try moving,’ he says, and Martin obediently thrusts forward before pulling back. Douglas wraps his hand around both of them, giving Martin something to push into, and when Martin draws back then Douglas holds his fingers steady so that as Martin pulls back then he pushes himself onto Douglas’ fingers.

‘ _Oh_ ,’ he groans, sounding as though it’s being pulled up from his toes, and after a pause he keeps going, until Douglas’ fingers are sunk into him as far as they can go. He thrusts forward again, moaning as they slide out of him, before withdrawing and pushing himself back onto them.

Douglas tightens the grip of his other hand, wiping his thumb across the heads of their cocks as Martin pushes urgently into his clasp, and catches Martin’s mouth for a kiss, spreading his legs with the intent of parting Martin’s thighs further.

After a few minutes of this, Martin tenses and gets heavier on top of him.

‘Douglas,’ he slurs, shivering. ‘I’m almost… I’m going to come.’

‘Good,’ Douglas growls into his ear, and thrusts his fingers in Martin as far as they’ll go, finding the soft-solid rise inside him that makes him squirm. ‘Do it.’

‘Oh God,’ Martin gasps. His eyes are shut tight and he’s stopped moving completely, and Douglas works his hand along their lengths.

‘Let go.’ He nuzzles the words into Martin’s ear. ‘Come on, let me have it, that’s mine.’

Martin gives a strangled noise against Douglas’ shoulder, and Douglas feels him tighten and start to contract rhythmically around his fingers, and the next instant Martin’s cock is twitching against his own and Douglas’ hand and wrist are warm and wet.

Almost before he’s finished, Martin is taking his weight on one arm and reaching down to fumble at Douglas’ cock; Douglas is so close that it only takes a few pulls, their joined fist slick with Martin’s come, before he has to bite back his groans as he follows.

When Douglas is finished, he gently pulls Martin’s hand away from his cock and lets his head fall back on the pillow with a luxurious, satisfied groan. He’s always had a liking for morning sex with his partners: limbs too heavy with sleep for any acrobatics, but hazy and dreamy with languor and desire.

Martin has more or less collapsed on top of him, face pressed into Douglas’ throat, and Douglas eases him to lie against his side so that he can shove the covers down to let the cooler air against their skin.

Martin is a delicious, heavy-limbed weight against him, and Douglas strokes a hand firmly down his spine, loving the way Martin melts further against him at the caress.

‘How long before you can go again?’ he asks lazily, and Martin shakes his head muzzily.

‘I can’t,’ he says, lifting his head to blink at Douglas. ‘One’s my limit, first thing in the morning.’

It’s true that Martin’s eyelids have already started to droop heavily and that he feels increasingly boneless against Douglas, and so Douglas cards his fingers through Martin’s hair and nudges his head back down to rest on Douglas’ shoulder again.

It’s quite disconcertingly lovely to lie here like this with Martin, staring at the hotel’s grotty ceiling with Martin’s breath sighing warm over his collarbone and Martin’s ridiculous mop of curls tickling his jaw. It would be all too easy to fall back to sleep like this, and not get up until their stomachs drove them out to find breakfast, but Douglas isn’t ready yet for anyone else to know about them. And, given how close Martin plays his cards to his chest, he’s almost _certain_ that Martin isn’t either.

So he rubs the back of his forearm over his face, forbidding himself to doze off, and stretches his muscles until he feels slightly more awake. It’s an almost physical wrench to extract himself from bed: Martin is warm and half-asleep and clingy, and it’s unfair how enchanting Douglas finds that. But he steels himself and gets up, pulling the blankets up around Martin’s shoulders when he does.

He gives himself a quick wash with the flannel at the sink in the corner, trying not to wake Martin, and dresses as silently as he can. He’s just buttoning his shirt when the bedclothes rustle, an arm flails for the lamp, and the next instant Martin is blinking sleepily at him, looking disappointed and with his hair going in a dozen different directions.

‘You’re leaving?’ he says, and his face flickers through several expressions too quickly for Douglas to parse. Uppermost, however, is disappointment, and it makes Douglas go to sit on the edge of the bed so he can stroke the backs of his fingers down Martin’s face.

‘I think I have to,’ he says gently. ‘I didn’t think you’d want Carolyn to find out yet, and I’m sure that she’ll be up and about in another half-hour or so. And you know how distressingly sharp her hearing is.’

‘Fair enough,’ Martin murmurs, and Douglas can’t resist leaning in for a kiss.

‘When we’re back in Fitton tonight,’ he says, trying to sound casual, ‘after you’ve taken your van home and done any bits and pieces you need to, what do you say to packing a change of clothes and coming over to my place for dinner? And perhaps breakfast the next morning? After a lie-in, of course; a _proper_ one, not an absurdly truncated one like yesterday morning.’

Martin’s smile is glorious. ‘Alright. Yes, I’d like that.’

‘Good.’ Douglas kisses him again, and gets up.

He picks his shoes and socks up – no sense putting them on when he’s only going next door – and unlocks the door as quietly as he can.

‘Go back to sleep,’ he tells Martin, who in truth looks most of the way there already, lying bare-chested among the sheets. ‘I’ll see you at breakfast.’

‘Yes,’ Martin says again, face half-turned into Douglas’ pillow and still smiling. ‘Alright.’

It’s a gorgeous sight and Douglas doesn’t want to look away from it until he absolutely has to, backing out of the door and smiling fondly.

Which is why, when he finally shuts the door and turns around, he almost shouts with surprise at finding himself nose to nose with Carolyn. It’s a supreme act of self-control that he stays silent; Carolyn’s furious look could melt rocks but when she opens her mouth Douglas quickly lays a finger across his lips, gesturing for silence. Martin had looked so wonderfully relaxed and happy lying there, and Douglas would prefer to put off for as long as possible the moment when he starts to fret that their employer has found out about them.

Miraculously, Carolyn complies, but jerks her head at her room in a gesture that communicates _We need to talk_ as clearly as a shout. Douglas follows her into her room, and as soon as the door has closed behind him she rounds on him.

‘Douglas Richardson,’ she says, her voice pitched quietly enough not to travel through the walls but no less terrifying for that, ‘what the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?’

Douglas folds his arms, and decides to go on the offensive.

‘What are you doing up at this hour?’ he demands. ‘I hadn’t thought anyone would be around.’

‘Clearly!’ she retorts. ‘For your information, I get up at six o’clock every morning to walk my dog, and just because she’s not here doesn’t mean that I don’t still wake up. But don’t think you can get away from it that easily. I repeat: _what_ do you think you’re doing?’

Douglas considers his options.

‘Is there any chance you’d believe that Martin had an urgent query about a standard operating procedure that he wanted to review with me?’

Carolyn huffs, not amused. ‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t just make such a transparently pathetic attempt to excuse yourself. Even if I really was as stupid as you seem to think, you have a mark on your collarbone.’

Douglas reaches up automatically to touch it, and has a sudden sense memory of Martin as he made it: tense and shuddering on top of Douglas as he came, mouth open against Douglas’ skin as Martin tried to smother his moans.

‘Oh Christ,’ Carolyn groans. ‘ _Please_ take that look off your face; this is really more information about the sex lives of my crew than I ever, _ever_ wanted to know. Douglas, you need to stop this now. Whatever you’re planning, whatever game you’re playing, just–’

‘I’m not,’ Douglas cuts in at last, pushed into defensiveness. ‘Carolyn, not that it’s any of your business, but I genuinely like him, and have been trying to several weeks to win him over.’

‘And now that you have?’ Carolyn grits out between her teeth.

‘I hope to keep him won over,’ Douglas says. ‘Is it so unreasonable to think that I might have developed feelings for him?’

‘Yes,’ Carolyn tells him bluntly. ‘Now listen, you and I aren’t so different from each other: we’ve both been around long enough to know that relationships are messy, complicated things with no guarantee of success. But Martin–’

‘Is helplessly naïve, and trusting, and has almost ridiculously dent-able self-confidence?’ Douglas interrupts.

‘Yes,’ Carolyn says. ‘And if you upset him or hurt him in any way, then–’

‘I _know_ ,’ Douglas says. He never expected to be getting this talk about Martin from _Carolyn_ , of all people, but then on reflection it’s obvious that Martin’s distant and useless family weren’t going to do it. ‘Carolyn, I know. Believe it or not, I’ve truly no desire to upset him, and not only because it would make the flight deck excruciatingly awkward. I actually like him, and was hoping to keep him around for a rather more long-term basis than you seem to think me capable of.’

Carolyn eyes him distrustfully at this, and Douglas straightens his spine and changes his grip on his shoes to his other hand.

‘Now if you don’t mind, can I…?’ He gestures towards the door and Carolyn waves him away impatiently.

‘Oh fine, go. But I’m watching, Douglas, and if he looks to be on the verge of getting his heart broken then you _will_ regret it.’

The threat is vague and non-explicit, but Douglas hears it all the same. But the words ‘heart broken’ make him pause in his edging towards the door.

‘I don’t think he’d be _quite_ as upset as all that,’ he points out. ‘Put out, yes, but I wouldn’t say heartbroken.’

Carolyn’s face does something complicated before settling into weary resignation.

‘Then you obviously haven’t caught the looks he’s been giving you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. Now go on,’ she turns away, effectively dismissing him, ‘go.’

Douglas slips across the corridor to his own room, his weary and rather cynical heart feeling lighter than it has for several months.

***

Martin is ridiculously lovely at breakfast. He can’t seem to stop smiling; when Arthur comments on how happy he seems then he blushes and ducks his head and mutters something to the effect that he slept very well. Douglas remembers waking up, with Martin’s head pillowed on his arm and the long curve of his spine tucked against Douglas’ chest and stomach, and can’t stop a smile of his own.

‘Did you sleep well too, Douglas?’ Arthur asks, all innocence, and as Douglas answers, ‘I did indeed. Better than I have for several weeks,’ he pretends not to see Martin flush redder and his foolish grin.

Later that morning, when Martin is doing his pre-flight walkaround, Carolyn sticks her head in the flight deck to complain to Douglas: ‘He must think I’m either blind, or stupid, or both. Do you think it’s possible for him to be slightly less obvious?’

Douglas rolls his eyes, even as his ego swells slightly. ‘Probably not. Or at least not yet. Just give him some time.’

Martin’s attempts at subtlety and subterfuge are terrible, but for the first time since Douglas has known him then his face has lost some of its pinched, unhappy look and he seems more content.

The flight back is uneventful, and at the airfield Douglas offers Martin a lift back home, trying to seem casual. Martin stumbles a little over his acceptance, making Carolyn roll her eyes behind his back, but manages to get into Douglas’ car with something approaching his usual composure (or as much of it as Martin ever has).

Douglas flicks the radio on as he drives and the music fills the space between them. It feels comfortable, familiar, and Douglas catches himself humming along to it as he drives. When they get to his house, Martin gets his bag out of the boot and fiddles with his van keys.

‘Well then,’ he says, looking at Douglas’ chest, their shoes, Douglas’ car... everywhere but Douglas’ eyes. ‘I’ll see you.’

‘You’re still coming over later?’ Douglas says. It’s not quite a question and not quite a statement; he doesn’t want Martin to feel obliged but nor does he want him to doubt that his company is desired.

‘Yes, alright,’ Martin says, meeting Douglas’ gaze with a real smile.

‘Good,’ Douglas says. ‘I’ll make dinner.’

Something substantial, he thinks; Martin could do with a bit more flesh on his bones.

‘Right then,’ Martin says. He grins suddenly, bright and happy. ‘I’ll see you later.’

With that, he gets into his van and drives off. Douglas watches him go, before turning to the car to retrieve his own bag. As he carries it in and sets it down, he makes a mental note to look at properties for sale in Fitton. It’s past time he moved out of this house, after all, and perhaps he can find somewhere small, with a large master bedroom and a driveway big enough for an ancient, cantankerous old van.

**End**


End file.
